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FROM    FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 


BY  THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

UNIFORM  EDITION 

In  Ten  Volumes.  With  Vignette  Title-pages. 
Large  Crown  8vo.     6s.  net  each. 

OLD  KENSINGTON. 

THE  VILLAGE  ON    THE  CLIFF. 

FIVE  OLD  FRIENDS  AND  A  YOUNG  PRINCE. 

TO   ESTHER,   AND   OTHER  SKETCHES. 

BLUEBEARD'S  KEYS,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

'I  HE  STORY  OF  ELIZABETH;  TWO  HOURS; 

FROM  AN   ISLAND. 
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ESSAYS. 
MISS  ANGEL:  FULHAM  LAWN. 
MISS  WILLIAMSON'S  DIVAGATIONS, 
MRS.   DYMOND. 

BLACKSTICK   PAPERS 

With  Portraits,  including  a  Portrait  of  W.  M. 
Thackeray,  from  a  newly-discovered  Miniature 
Painting.     6s.  net. 

FROM   THE    PORCH 

With  Portrait.     6s.  net. 


>    > 


[Frontispiece 


FROM  FRIEND  TO  FRIEND 


By   LADY    RITCHIE 

(KDITF.D    BY    HER    SISTER-IN-LAW,    MISS    EMILY    RITCHIE) 


WITH  A   PORTRAIT 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 
1920 


PREFACE 

It  was  during  the  last  months  of  her  life  that 
my  sister-in-law  put  together  and  revised  the 
writings  in  this  volume,  forming  one  more  little 
gallery  of  her  vivid,  far-ranging  memories. 
The  sketch  of  Mrs.  Sartoris  first  appeared  as 
a  Preface  to  the  republication  of  "  A  Week  in 
a  French  Country  House,"  by  Messrs.  Smith, 
Elder  &  Co.,  and  she  wished  that  her  sincere 
thanks  should  be  given  to  Mr.  John  Murray 
for  permission  to  republish  it  as  well  as  "  From 
Friend  to  Friend"  and  "  Two  letters  from 
W.  M.  T."  which  came  out  in  the  Comhill 
Magazine.  Her  thanks  were  also  due  to 
Messrs.  Macmillan,  and  to  the  Editors  of  The 
Sphere  and  of  The  Illustrated  London  News, 
in  which  the  story  of  "  Binnie  "  was  published 
in  1893. 

EMILY   RITCHIE. 


VI 


CONTENTS 

PAGS 

From  Friend  to  Friend i 

Mrs.  Sartoris,  1314-1879 40 

Mrs.  Kemble,  i 809-1 893 77 

A.Roman  Christmas-time 93 

Present  Tapestries  and  Far-off  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates   .       .       . 98 

Two  Letters  to  a  Painter  from  W.  M.  Thackeray  104 

In  a  French  Village 114 

Binnie      • 124 


FROM    FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 

I 

A  child  who  was,  I  suppose,  once  myself  sat 
on  the  stairs  in  an  old  house  at  Twickenham 
with  a  thrill  of  respectful  adventure,  looking  up 
at  the  carved  oaken  figure  of  a  Bishop  with 
benedictory  hands  standing  in  a  niche  in  the 
panelled  wall.  The  house  was  Chapel  House 
in  Montpelier  Row,  inhabited  in  those  days  by 
a  Captain  Alexander  who  had  fought  in  the 
Peninsular  War,  and  who  christened  his  children 
by  the  names  of  the  battles,  and  my  sister  and 
I  were  spending  the  summer  there  while  my 
father  was  in  Germany.  We  enjoyed  the  old 
house  and  garden,  and  the  youthful  companion- 
ship of  Vittoria  Alexander,  my  contemporary. 
When  I  read  the  address  on  some  letters  which 
have  been  lately  shown  me  by  the  present  Lord 
Tennyson,  one  of  those  wonderful  mental 
cinemas  we  all  carry  in  our  minds  flashed  me 
back  to  the  panelled  rooms  and  the  dark  hall 
and  the  oak  staircase  and  the  benedictory 
Bishop.  Among  those  who  passed  before  him, 
treading  the  broad  steps  after  the  Alexanders 
had  left,  cam~  the  Poet  Laureate  and  his  wife, 


2       FROM   FRIEND  TO   FRIEND 

who  lived  for  a  time  at  Chapel  House,  where 
their  son  Hallam  was  born.  But  Tennyson 
wished  to  live  in  the  country,  and  they  did 
not  stay  very  long  at  Twickenham.  An  early 
letter  written  from  thence  introduces  a  whole 
party  of  friends  living  in  those  days  of  peace. 
It  is  dated  June  25,  1852,  and  was  despatched 
by  Mrs.  Tennyson  to  Mrs.  Cameron,  her 
neighbour  at  Sheen, 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Cameron, — Thank  you. 
It  was  very  pleasant  being  at  Kew  Gardens, 
still  we  should  have  liked  two  pleasant  things 
instead  of  one.  .  .  .  We  are  by  every  post 
expecting  a  letter  about  a  house  which  may 
send  us  in  another  direction,  but  I  am  not  going 
to  drag  you  house-hunting  even  on  paper. 
My  husband  would,  I  am  sure,  listen  with  the 
most  hearty  interest  to  you.  The  East  is  a 
great  inspiring  theme.  Would  that  his  brother 
Horatio  were  doing  something  there  ...  he 
would  have  made  a  grand  soldier  of  the  old 
school.  You  would  like  him  if  he  were  not  too 
shy  to  show  himself  as  he  is.  He  is  living  with 
his  mother,  but  we  will  with  all  pleasure  bring 
him.  I  am  going  to  let  Mrs.  Henry  Taylor 
know  when  we  can  say  with  any  certainty  when 
we  shall  be  at  home.  Hoping  that  you  and 
they  will  be  able  to  come  to  us, 

11  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  Emily  Tennyson." 


MRS.  CAMERON  3 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  the  long  life's 
friendship  and  correspondence  between  the  two 
friends. 

They  were  ladies,  in  looks  something  like 
those  familiar  paintings  by  Watts,  or  by  some 
of  the  old  Italian  masters  he  loved.  Watts 
himself  has  painted  Mrs.  Tennyson  more  than 
once  and  recorded  her  beautiful  spiritual  aspect 
and  features,  and  he  has  also  left  a  portrait  of 
her  correspondent  Mrs.  Cameron ;  a  woman  of 
noble  plainness  carrying  herself  with  dignity 
and  expression,  and  well  able  to  set  off  the  laces 
and  Indian  shawls  she  wore  so  carelessly.  Mrs. 
Tennyson  was  more  daintily  attired  ;  she  wore 
a  quaint  little  gimp  high  to  the  throat,  her  soft 
dresses  were  of  violet  and  grey  and  plum  colour, 
a  white  net  coiffe  fell  over  her  brown  hair. 
Her  hair  never  turned  grey ;  she  remained  to 
us  all,  a  presence  sweet  and  unchanged  in  that 
special  and  peaceful  home-shrine  to  which  no 
votary  ever  came  more  warmly  true  and  re- 
sponsive than  Julia  Cameron,  her  neighbour  in 
the  island  for  so  many  years.  Mrs.  Cameron 
was  one  of  the  well-known  family  of  Pattle 
sisters,  gifted  women  who  were  able  to  illustrate 
their  own  theories.  They  were  unconscious 
artists  with  unconventional  rules  for  life  which 
excellently  suited  themselves. 

My  own  first  meeting  with  Mrs.  Cameron 
was  not  very  long  after  my  youthful  stay  in 


4        FROM    FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 

Chapel    House,  one   summer's   day  when  my 
father  took  my  sister  and  myself  to  Sheen  to 
see  an  old  friend  lately  returned  from  India.    I 
remember  a  strange  apparition  in  a  flowing  red 
velvet   dress,  although   it   was  summer  time, 
cordially  welcoming   us  to  a   fine  house  and 
some  belated  meal,  when  the  attendant  butler 
was   addressed  by   her  as    "man,"   and    was 
ordered  to  do  many  things  for  our  benefit ;  to 
bring  back  the  luncheon  dishes  and  curries  for 
which    Mrs.   Cameron   and   her   family  had  a 
speciality.     When  we  left  she  came  with  us 
bareheaded,  with  trailing  draperies,  part  of  the 
way  to  the  station  as  her  kind  habit  was.     A 
friend  of  mine  told  me  how  on  one  occasion  she 
accompanied  her  in  the  same  way,  carrying  a 
cup  of  tea  which  she  stirred  as  she  walked  along. 
My  father,  who  had  known  her  first  as  a  girl 
in  Paris,  laughed  and  said  :  "  She  is  quite  un- 
changed," and  unchanged  she  remained  to  the 
end   of  her   days ;    generous,  unconventional, 
loyal  and  unexpected. 

Alfred  Tennyson,  writing  to  his  wife  in 
1885,  says  :  "  I  dined  with  Mrs.  Cameron  last 
night :  she  is  more  wonderful  than  ever  in  her 
wild  beaming  benevolence." 

There  are  several  mentions  of  this  most 
interesting,  most  emphatic  lady  in  Sir  Henry 
Taylors  "Autobiography."  Sir  Henry,  who 
was  her  chosen  ideal  among  many,  says  ;  "  In 


SIR   HENRY   TAYLOR  5 

India,  in  the  absence  of  the  Governor-General's 
wife,  she  has  been  at  the  head  of  the  European 
Society,  for  Mr.  Cameron  was  a  very  high 
official,  succeeding  Lord  Macaulay  as  Legal 
Member  of  Council.  In  Lord  Macaulay  s  Life 
a  letter  is  quoted  addressed  by  him  to  Mr. 
Ellis  dated  August  1835:  'Cameron  arrived 
here  about  a  fortnight  ago,  and  we  are  most 
actively  engaged  preparing  a  complete  Criminal 
Code  for  India.  He  and  I  agree  excellently. 
Ryan,  the  most  liberal  of  judges,  lends  us  his 
best  assistance/  " 

11  Does  Alice,"  Sir  Henry  writes  to  a  corre- 
spondent, "  ever  tell  you,  or  do  I,  how  we  go 
on  with  Mrs.  Cameron,  how  she  keeps  shower- 
ing on  us  'her  barbaric  pearls  and  gold,'  Indian 
shawls,  turquoise  bracelets,  inlaid  portfolios, 
ivory  elephants,  etc.,  and  how  she  writes  us 
letters  six  sheets  long  all  about  ourselves  ?  .  .  . 
It  was  indeed  impossible  that  we  should  not 
grow  fond  of  her,  and  not  less  so  for  the  many 
whom  her  genial  and  generous  nature  has 
captivated  since." 

It  is  very  difficult  to  describe  Mrs.  Cameron. 
She  played  the  game  of  life  with  such  vivid 
courage  and  disregard  for  ordinary  rules ;  she 
entered  into  other  people's  interests  with  such 
warmhearted  sympathy  and  determined  devo- 
tion, that,  though  her  subjects  may  have 
occasionally  rebelled,  they  generally  ended  by 


6       FROM   FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

gratefully  succumbing  to  her  rule,  laughing  and 
protesting  all  the  time. 

Sir  Henry  quotes  her  saying  to  some  one 
with  whom  she  had  disagreed  :  "  Before  the 
year  is  out  you  will  love  me  as  a  sister,"  and 
he  adds  that  she  proved  the  truth  of  this 
prophecy.  She  must  have  been  a  trying  sister 
at  times,  especially  when  her  relations  and  her 
adopted  relations  were  ill.  She  longed  to  cure 
them  on  the  spot ;  she  would  fly  in  an  agony 
from  one  great  doctor  to  another,  demanding 
advice  and  insisting  on  instant  prescription  and 
alleviation.  "  Culpable  carelessness,  profound 
ignorance,"  were  the  least  of  her  criticisms  of 
family  physicians  whom  she  had  not  sent  in 
herself.  She  would  eloquently  describe  the 
anxious  hours  she  spent  in  waiting-rooms, 
obtaining  opinions  from  great  authorities  who 
had  not  even  seen  the  patient.  Sir  Henry's 
stepmother  (Mrs.  Cameron  had  barely  known 
her)  says  concerning  some  attempted  change : 
M I  think  I  might  have  found  good  Mrs. 
Cameron's  loving  letter  difficult  to  answer,  and 
though  I  have  a  sort  of  scruple  about  refusing 
kindness  and  charitable  love,  yet  I  cannot  help 
being  glad  you  saved  me.  ..." 

II 

The  real  neighbours  in  life  do  not  depend 
on  vicinity  only,  they  have  a  way  of  continuing 


THE   TENNYSONS  7 

to  be  neighbours  quite  irrespective  of  their 
different  addresses.  The  Tennysons  had  ever 
a  very  faithful  following  of  old  friends  wherever 
they  happened  to  be.  They  themselves  were 
the  link  binding  many  interests  together.  As 
I  have  said,  the  first  letter  quoted  from  Twicken- 
ham was  followed  by  a  lifelong  correspondence. 
Mrs.  Tennyson  had  hurt  her  wrist  in  early 
youth  and  writing  was  often  difficult  to  her  ; 
though  until  her  son  grew  up,  almost  the  whole 
of  her  husband's  correspondence  depended 
upon  her. 

Mrs.  Cameron,  on  the  contrary,  loved  her 
pen.  She  wrote  a  large  and  flowing  hand, 
She  allowed  herself  in  life  and  on  paper  more 
space  than  is  usually  accorded  to  other  people. 
I  remember  her  offering  to  write  for  my  father. 
"  Nobody  writes  as  well  as  I  do,"  she  said, 
"  let  me  come  and  write  for  you." 

It  was  in  1854  that  the  Tennysons  first 
settled  at  Farringford.  Those  must  have  been 
happy  days  for  Mrs.  Tennyson,  though  the 
trial  of  delicate  health  was  always  there.  She 
writes  to  Julia  Cameron,  describing  the  sights 
to  be  seen  from  her  drawing-room  windows : 

"  The  elms  make  a  golden  girdle  round 
us  now.  The  dark  purple  hills  of  England 
behind  are  a  glorious  picture  in  the  morning 
when  the  sun  shines  on  them  and  the  elm 
trees." 


8       FROM   FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

Again : 

"It  is  tantalising  to  have  a  big  smooth 
rounded  down  just  in  front  of  a  large  window 
and  to  be  forbidden  by  the  bitter  winter  blasts 
to  climb  it.  It  is  a  pity  the  golden  furze  is  not 
in  bloom,  for  when  it  is  it  makes  a  gorgeous 
contrast  to  the  blue  Solent.  .  .  .  Alfred  has 
been  reading  *  Hamlet '  to  me  and  since  then 
has  been  drawn  down  to  the  bay  by  the  loud 
voice  of  the  sea.  .  .  .  There  is  something  so 
wholesome  in  beauty,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to 
try  to  tell  of  all  we  have  here  in  those  delicate 
tints  of  a  distant  bay  and  the  still  more  distant 
headlands.  These  I  see  every  day  with  my 
own  eyes,  and  so  many  other  things  with  Ms, 
when  he  comes  back  from  his  walk." 

Of  her  two  boys  she  writes  : 

"  People  say  they  are  winning  children, 
even  those  who  are  neither  poets  nor  mothers. 
What  should  I  do  if  I  had  not  a  poet's  heart 
to  share  my  feelings  for  the  children  ? "  We 
get  a  pretty  glimpse  of  Alfred  one  Christmas 
time  putting  on  little  Hallam's  coatee,  a  present 
from  Mrs.  Cameron,  needless  to  say. 

"Thanks,  thanks,  thanks,"  said  Mrs.  Tenny- 
son. "  And  for  my  frill,  as  Alfred  calls  it,  and 
for  the  beautiful  big  ball  which  charms  Hallam 
beyond  measure  and  delights  baby  too,  only 
with  so  much  of  fear  in  the  delight  that  he  dare 


MRS.   TENNYSON  9 

not  approach  the  giant  without  having  Mother's 
hand  in  his.  I  do  hope  that  I  shall  hear  that 
you  are  all  well  and  that  things  grow  brighter 
and  brighter  as  Christmas  comes  on,  for  I 
cannot  accept  old  Herbert's  gloomy  version  of 
things.  I  will  admit  most  thankfully  that  griefs 
are  joys  in  disguise,  but  not  the  converse 
except  as  a  half  truth,  and  half  truths  are  the 
most  dangerous  of  all.  God  wills  us  to  be 
happy  even  here  .  .  .  only  let  us  give  happi- 
ness its  most  exalted  sense.  I  often  think  one 
is  not  told  of  joy  as  a  Christian  virtue  as  one 
ought  to  be.  This,  however,  is  rather  by  the 
way,  for  joy  can  subsist  with  sorrow,  but 
happiness  cannot  be  without  happy  circum- 
stances." 

Another  Christmas  brings  more  acknow- 
ledgments for  other  gifts,  and  also  friendly 
reproaches.  "  The  only  drawback  is  the  old 
complaint  that  you  will  rain  down  precious 
things  upon  us,  not  drop  by  drop,  but  in  whole 
Golconda  mines  at  once."  Mrs.  Cameron  pays 
little  attention  to  such  warnings,  for  the  next 
letter  from  Mrs.  Tennyson  begins  with  thanks 
again.  "  Why  will  you  send  us  these  things 
which  are  so  beautiful  ?  " 

Mrs.  Tennyson  was  afraid  of  wounding  her 
friend  ;  she  tried  reprisals  once,  which  we  may 
guess    at    as   we   read    Mrs.    Cameron's   own 


jo     FROM   FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

reproaches  and  eulogies,  combined  in  a  letter 
concerning  an  Easter  gift : 

"  It  really  was  an  Easter  Day  offering  to 
my  spirit  which  seemed  to  tell  me  of  '  a  bride 
in  clean  raiment '  and  '  a  glittering  star  '  such 
as  I  may  through  God's  grace  be  some  day, 
but  now  I  am  a  grandmother  with  every  vestige 
of  grace  gone,  not  preserving,  as  you  do,  a 
youthful  figure  ;  and  truly  I  am  not  worthy  of 
the  lovely  jacket  and  therefore  I  shall  bring  it 
back.  ...  Mr.  Jowett  has  been  sitting  with 
Charles,  and  when  he  would  long  for  the  open 
air  comes  to  cheer  and  enliven  him.  Truly  he 
has  a  sweet  virtue." 

Her  name  for  Jowett  was,  "  little  Benjamin 
their  ruler. "  Her  picture  of  him  in  her  gallery 
will  be  remembered. 

Mrs.  Cameron,  the  Martha  friend,  loved  to 
work  for  the  Mary  friend.  We  read  of  a  hat 
with  a  long  feather  and  broad  blue  ribbons  to 
be  ordered  in  London  —then  messages  and 
details  about  furniture  from  the  mistress  of 
Farringford. 

"  I  have  tried  many  times  to  get  some 
violet-coloured  cloth,  because  Alfred  has  always 
admired  the  violet  covering  in  your  dining- 
room.  Will  you  do  me  the  kindness  to  get 
me  some  sufficiently  good  ?  " 

Then  she  goes  on  to  give  news  of  her  home, 


MRS.   TENNYSON  n 

of  the  bay-window  being  added  to  the  study, 
"  that  dear  little  room  hallowed  by  so  many 
associations,  which  should  scarcely  be  touched 
even  in  improvement." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  our  falling  leaves?"  she 
writes,  urging  Mrs.  Cameron  to  come  and  stay 
with  them.  u  We  sweep  them  up  diligently 
every  day  for  the  good  of  our  own  little  ones, 
and  there  would  be  an  increased  diligence  for 
the  sake  of  your  poor  sick  lamb.  I  am  so  glad 
you  returned  thanks  in  Church  :  I  am  sure  the 
world  would  be  better  if  we  claimed  our  right 
of  brotherly  sympathy  with  all,  for  it  is  only 
those  who  give  theirs  beforehand  who  think  of 
claiming  it.  .  .  . " 

One  letter  dated  January  i,  1885,  might 
have    been    written    word    for    word    to-day 

(1915). 

"  Many,  many  happy  New  Years  to  you, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Cameron,  and  to  all  you  love. 
How  vain  is  this  wish  for  thousands  on  this 
particular  year  !  It  is  difficult  to  interest  one- 
self in  any  common  events.  Only  one's  friends 
can  take  oft  one's  thoughts  from  the  war.  ..." 

Mrs.  Tennyson  envies  some  one  who  has 
sent  out  a  shipload  of  help. 

'*  Ah,  well !  We  may  all  do  our  little  if  we 
will  but  do  what  we  have  to  do,  and  not  waste 
our   time    in  vain  longings   for  that  which   is 


i2      FROM    FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

given   to  others  to  do.      You  can  never  have 
been  guilty  of  this  in  all  your  life.  .  .  . ' 

III 

Mrs.  Cameron  sometimes  writes  to  Tenny- 
son as  well  as  to  his  wife.  Here  is  a  quotation 
from  a  long  letter  written  in  1855. 

"  Dear  Alfred, — It  is  so  tantalising  to  be 
in  your  neighbourhood  without  being  able  to  get 
to  dear  Farririgford,  that  I  must  write  to  you 
from  this.  If  we  stayed  longer  I  am  sure  I 
should  slide  away  and  make  a  run  for  your 
coast,  but  we  go  home  to-morrow  when  our 
week  will  be  completed.  Where  are  we  if  we 
are  your  neighbours  ?  Not  near  eno'  and  yet 
not  far.  In  one  of  the  loveliest  homes  of 
England,  where  from  the  Tower  you  can  see 
the  dear  Isle  of  Wight,  Parnassian  Needles, 
and  the  silver  thread  of  the  outline  of  Alum 
Bay.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  Canford  is  our  dwelling-place  during 
this  Holiday  week.  This  Manor,  this  Hall 
and  the  cricket  ground  have  witnessed  nothing 
but  sunshine  Holiday  and  midnight  revelry  all 
the  twenty-four  hours  round." 

u  The  youthful  host,  Sir  Ivor  Guest,  has  had 
perfect  success  in  his  entertainment.  Every- 
body has  been  charming  and  everybody  has 
been  charmed," 


MRS.    HAMBRO  13 


o 


11  There  has  been  great  beauty  here  amongst 
the  young  Wives  and  young  Maidens. 

"  Amongst  the  young  Wives  'the  Queen 
of  Beauty'  is  Mrs.  Hambro  (one  month  younger 
than  my  Juley)  frolicsome  and  graceful  as  a 
kitten  and  having  the  form  and  eye  of  an 
antelope.  She  is  tall  and  slender,  not  stately, 
and  not  seventeen — but  quite  able  to  make  all 
daisies  rosy  and  the  ground  she  treads  seems 
proud  of  her. 

"  Then  her  complexion  (or  rather  her  skin) 
is  faultless — it  is  like  the  leaf  of  '  that  con- 
summate flower  '  the  Magnolia — a  flower  which 
is,  I  think,  so  mysterious  in  its  beauty  as  if  it 
were  the  only  thing  left  unsoiled  and  unspoiled 
from  the  garden  of  Eden.  A  flower  a  blind 
man  would  mistake  for  a  fruit  too  rich,  too 
good  for  Human  Nature's  daily  food.  We  had  a 
standard  Magnolia  tree  in  our  garden  at  Sheen, 
and  on  a  still  summer  night  the  moon  would 
beam  down  upon  those  ripe  rich  vases,  and  they 
used  to  send  forth  a  scent  that  made  the  soul 
faint  with  a  sense  of  the  luxury  of  the  world  of 
flowers.  I  always  think  that  flowers  tell  as 
much  of  the  bounty  of  God's  love  as  the 
Firmament  shows  of  His  handiwork." 

(After  this  digression  the  writer  returns  to 
Mrs.  Hambro.) 

11  Very  dark  hair  and  eyes  contrasting  with 


i4     FROM    FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

the  magnolia  skin,  diamonds  that  dazzle  and 
seem  laughing  when  she  laughs,  and  a  costume 
that  offers  new  varieties  every  third  hour," 
completes  the  sketch  of  the  heroine. 

The  letter  also  goes  on  to  describe  at  length 
each  of  the  ten  members  of  the  Guest  family 
and  many  more  visitors  and  relations,  and  is 
much  too  long  to  quote  in  its  entirety,  but  I 
cannot  omit  the  description  of 

"all  the  young  men  and  maidens  standing 
in  a  circle  in  the  High  Hall,  singing. 

"  They  all  have  splendid  voices.  All  the 
boys  play  on  flutes,  violins  and  flageolets,  singing 
every  manner  of  Yankee  chorus,  glee  and  song  ; 
they  dance  and  toss  india-rubber  balls,  but  the 
grand  Hall  seems  almost  too  noble  for  this, 

"  l  Storied  windows  richly  dight 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light,' 

and  its  measureless  roof,  fitted  for  the  organ's 
pealing  sound,  for  the  delight  of  anthem,  and 
the  joy  of  praise  and  prayer,  and  for  reading 
of  great  and  good  Poems.  I  did  once  persuade 
them  to  reading  in  that  Hall.  I  read  your  '  Ode 
on  the  Duke,'  and  it  sounded  solemn  and  sweet 
there.  You  know  how  dear  Henry  Taylor 
valued  it,  and  I  treasured  in  my  heart  your 
answer  to  his  praise  of  it.  I  enclose  you  his 
little  note  to  me  about  '  Maud '  because  you 
said  you  would  like  to  see  it.  I  read  also  your 
lines  to  James  Spedding.     I  read  '  St.  Agnes/ 


CANFORD  IS 

too,  in  that  Hall.  Those  chants  are  worthy  of 
that  edifice. 

"  The  house  has  immense  capacities.  Last 
Sunday  we  slept  ninety  people  here,  Lady 
Charlotte  told  me,  tho'  nothing  extraordinary 
was  going  on. 

"  We  dine  every  evening  twenty-six  in 
number.  Conversation  is  not  fertile,  but  the 
young  hearts  don't  need  it." 

This  was  the  year  "  Maud"  was  published. 
Poets  always  feel  criticism,  and  the  reviews  of 
the  poem  stung  Tennyson  cruelly,  with  their 
misunderstanding  of  his  personal  attitude  to- 
wards the  war. 

"Is  it  not  well,"  writes  his  wife,  "that  he 
should  speak  anger  against  the  base  things  of 
the  world,  against  that  war  which  calls  itself 
peace,  slandering  the  war  whence  there  is  the 
truer  peace  ?  Surely  it  was  well,  for  he  has 
not  spoken  in  anger  only ;  if  he  has  spoken 
against  baseness  and  evil  in  the  world  he  has 
also  sung  what  every  loving  and  noble  heart 
can  understand  of  its  love  and  blessedness. 
But  you  are  right.  I  do  hope  that  in  more 
unmixed  and  fuller  tones  he  will  one  day  sing 
his  song.   .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Cameron's  daughter  Julia  was  engaged 
to  Charles  Norman  in  1858. 

Emily  Tennyson  writes  her  congratulations : 
"  It  is  like  a  book.     All  so  perfectly  happy,  and 


16     FROM    FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 

yet  I  feel  ungrateful  for  saying  so,  for  so  long  as 
one  believes  in  love  and  truth,  so  long  must  one 
believe  in  the  possibility  of  happiness,  and  I 
myself,  having  so  much  of  the  reality,  should 
most  of  all  dare  to  believe  in  the  possibility  for 
others.  Let  them  be  married  soon — I  may  be 
pardoned  for  a  horror  of  long  engagements/' 

In  1859  the  Camerons  were  still  on  Putney 
Heath,  but  Mr.  Cameron  was  preparing  to 
visit  his  estates  in  Ceylon,  of  which  disquieting 
news  had  reached  him. 

"  Charles  speaks  to  me  of  the  flower  of  the 
coffee  plant.  I  tell  him  that  the  eyes  of  the  first 
grandchild  should  be  more  beautiful  than  any 
flower,"  so  Mrs.  Cameron  used  to  exclaim 
pathetically,  and  she  wrote  to  her  friend  about 
the  coming  departure  which  she  dreaded — 

"  As  for  me  I  have  been  fairly  drowned  in 
troubles  and  cares,  and  the  waters  seem  to  pass 
over  one's  soul.  The  20th  November  is  now 
fast  approaching  and  whilst  it  approaches  I  am 
not  at  all  more  prepared  in  heart  or  in  deed. 
I  have  not  had  courage  to  make  the  necessary 
preparation.  To-day  the  portmanteaux  have 
been  dragged  out,  and  they  stand,  to  me 
threatening,  to  Charles  promising,  departure." 

Mr.  Cameron  was  seized  with  illness  about 
this  time. 

"  I  tell  him  this  should  be  a  warning  not  to 


MR.    CAMERON'S    ILLNESS        17 

leave  home  and  home  care  and  comforts.  He 
assures  me  that  the  sea  voyage  is  the  best  thing 
for  him  and  Ceylon  is  the  cure  for  all  things. 
I  looked  upon  this  illness  as  the  tender  rebuke 
of  a  friend.  He  requires  home  and  its  com- 
forts. He  has  been  having  strong  beef-tea 
thickened  with  arrowroot  six  times  a  day  !...." 
What  would  nurses  of  to-day  say  to  Mrs. 
Cameron's  menu  when  the  invalid,  her  husband, 
was  recovering  ? 

"  The  patient  has  poached  eggs  at  night, 
gets  up  at  eleven,  has  his  dinner  (gravy  soup 
and  curry)  at  one,  mulligatawny  soup  and  meat 
at  five,  a  free  allowance  of  port  wine,  averaging 
a  bottle  a  day.  Ten  drops  of  Jeremie's  opiate 
every  morning,  a  dose  of  creosote  zinc  and  gum 
arabic  before  his  meals,  and  a  dose  of  quinine 
after  each  meal." 

Notwithstanding  these  home  comforts  and 
all  his  wife's  remonstrances  the  invalid  started 
with  one  of  his  sons,  while  she  remained  at 
home  with  the  younger  children.  To  add  to 
her  troubles  Sir  Henry  Taylor  was  also  very  ill 
at  this  time  and  suffering  badly  from  the  com- 
plications of  asthma. 

Mrs.  Cameron  says — 

"  He  bears  what  he  calls  a  hedgehog  in  his 
chest  with  a  most  divine  patience,  even  as  a 
good  husband  would  bear  with  a  bad  wife,  and 


18     FROM   FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 

1  fear  he  will  have  his  hedgehog  in  his  chest 
till  death  do  them  part."* 

This  was  an  eventful  year  for  the  Camerons. 
The  first  grandchild,  their  daughter's  child,  was 
born. 

"May  she  ever  be  the  delight  of  your  lives !" 
wrote  Mrs.  Tennyson.  "  I  can  fancy  the  proud 
happiness  of  the  little  Uncles.  After  all  this 
excitement,  sorrowful  and  joyful,  after  the 
anxious  watching  of  so  many  hours,  you  need 
care  yourself  I  am  sure,  so  now  take  a  little 
thought  for  yourself  and  so  best  thought  for 
those  who  love  you." 

Already  in  1859,  not  burglars  on  the  lawn 
such  as  those  Horace  Walpole  describes,  but 
Cockneys,  were  beginning  to  appear  on  the 
Farringford  grounds.  We  read  of  two  who 
are  sitting  on  one  of  the  gates  in  the  garden 
watching  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tennyson  under  the 
cedars.  Alfred  is  actually  thinking  of  moving, 
so  averse  is  he  to  these  incursions.  Later  on 
he  went  for  a  change  to  Staffa  and  Iona  while 
Mrs.  Tennyson  stayed  at  home,  for  her  nerves 
were  not  able  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  journeys. 
Surges  of  pain  when  she  wrote  are  mentioned 
and  sleepless  nights  and  weakness.  Hospitable 
as  she  was  by  nature  and  by  a  sense  of  duty 

*  He  did  most  of  his  work  for  the  Colonial  Office  from  his 
sick-bed,  and  few  Secretaries  of  State  have  done  more  important 
work  than  he. 


VISITORS   AT   FARRINGFORD     19 

also,  the  entertaining  of  guests  was  often 
very  tiring  to  her.  Nevertheless  we  hear  of 
many  visitors — Lushingtons,  Frank  Palgrave, 
Simeons,  Edward  Lear  (who  called  his  house 
at  San  Remo  Villa  Emily  after  the  most  ideal 
woman  he  had  ever  known),  Woolner  the 
sculptor,  who  stays  for  some  time,  and  we  read 
about  portraits  he  was  taking  of  his  hosts. 

"  Alfred  is  charmed  with  the  medallion  of 
me,  and  I  think  myself,  if  such  a  picture  can  be 
made  of  my  worn  face,  that,  if  Lady  Somers 
and  the  Queens  and  Princesses  of  Pattledom 
were  successfully  done,  it  would  set  the  fashion." 

She  goes  on  to  say— 

"Words  fail  Mr.  Woolner,  all  eloquent  as 
he  is,  when  he  speaks  of  the  Pattle  sisters, 
especially  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Jackson  and 
her  three  beautiful  daughters." 

Among  her  guests  Mrs.  Tennyson  specially 
enjoyed  visits  from  Jowett.     She  says — 

11  He  stays  this  week  on  condition  of  being 
allowed  solitary  mornings  for  work.  You  know 
this  suits  me  well  who  also  have  work,  not  a 
little,  to  do.  In  the  evening  Alfred  or  he  reads 
aloud,  and  we  are  very  happy." 

One  year  there  is  mention  of  a  very 
important  personage  departing/rom  Farringford 
to  London — "  Tithonus,"  the  companion  poem 


20     FROM    FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

of  "  Ulysses,"  going  to-day  to  Thackeray  for 
the  Cornhill" 

There  had  been  a  plan  for  buying  a  house 
at  Freshwater  for  the  Camerons,  and  the 
Tennysons  are  helping  in  the  negotiation  for 
securing  the  land  before  Mr.  Cameron's  return. 
Lawyers,  business  agents,  purchases,  furnishings 
take  up  much  of  the  correspondence.  Some 
people  look  upon  business  as  a  bore,  Mrs. 
Cameron  took  it  as  the  battle  of  life,  with  all 
interest  and  excitement. 

"  The  garden  is  being  laid  out,"  Mrs. 
Tennyson  tells  her  ;  "  Merwood  proposes  that 
you  should  have  a  hedge  of  black'  bay  and 
copper  beech  which  his  wise  man  Pike  tells 
him  make  an  evergreen  hedge  almost  impene- 
trable, but  it  is  too  hard  a  frost  for  planting. 
The  ice  is  so  thick  that  Hallam  announces  an 
iceberg." 

Then  Mrs.  Cameron  writes — 

"  C.  is  indeed  well  pleased  to  hear  that  all 
seems  to  prosper  at  Freshwater  Bay  for  us. 
Yes,  how  dear  it  will  be  for  our  children  to 
grow  and  live  happy  together  playing  mad 
pranks  along  the  healthy  lea !  " 

Then  she  continues — 

"  Two  days  ago,  in  one  of  those  rare  bright 
days  which  sometimes  make  autumn  delicious, 


FESTIVITIES  21 

Henry  Taylor  walked  about  his  own  garden 
for  an  hour  with  Lord  John  Russell  discoursing 
politics  :  he  suffered  in  no  way." 

IV 

It  is  pleasant  still  to  remember  the  gaiety 
and  youth  of  Freshwater  in  the  seventies. 
The  place  was  full  of  young  people.  Two  of 
Mrs.  Cameron's  five  sons  lived  with  her  and 
Hardinge,  her  special  friend  and  adviser,  used 
to  come  over  from  Ceylon  from  time  to  time 
to  gladden  his  mother's  warm  heart,  to  add  up 
her  bills,  to  admonish  her,  to  cheer  and  enliven 
the  home. 

The  two  Tennyson  boys  were  at  Farring- 
ford.  The  Prinseps  were  at  the  Briary  with  a 
following  of  nephews  and  charming  girls  belong- 
ing to  the  family  ;  neighbours  joined  in,  such 
as  Simeons  from  Swainston,  Croziers  from 
Yarmouth  ;  officers  appeared  from  the  forts  ; 
and  as  one  remembers  it  all,  a  succession  of 
romantic  figures  comes  to  one's  mind,  still  to  be 
seen  in  the  pictures  of  Mrs.  Cameron's  devising. 
In  those  days  she  seemed  to  be  omnipresent — 
organising  happy  things,  summoning  one  person 
and  another,  ordering  all  the  day  and  long  into 
the  night,  for  of  an  evening  came  impromptu 
plays  and  waltzes  in  the  wooden  ball-room,  and 
young  partners  dancing  out  under  the  stars. 
One  warm  moonlight   night   I   remember  the 

C 


22     FROM   FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

whole  company  of  lads  and  lasses  went  stream- 
ing away  across  fields  and  downs,  past  silvery 
sheepfolds  to  the  very  cliffs  overhanging  the 
sea.  Farringford,  too,  gave  its  balls,  more 
stately  and  orderly  in  their  ways.  The  rhyth- 
mical, old-fashioned  progress  of  the  poet's  waltz 
delighted  us  all.  An  impression  remains  of 
brightest  colour  and  animation,  of  romantic 
graceful  figures,  a  little  fanciful — perfectly 
natural  even  when  under  Mrs.  Cameron's  rule. 

She  was  a  masterful  woman,  a  friend  with 
enough  of  the  foe  in  her  generous  composition 
to  make  any  of  us  hesitate  who  ventured  to 
cross  her  decree.  The  same  people  returned 
to  the  little  bay  again  and  again.  Some 
members  of  my  own  family,  christened  by  her 
with  names  out  of  Tennyson  and  Wordsworth, 
or  from  her  favourite  Italian  poets — Madonna 
this,  Madonna  that— used  to  join  us  Easter 
after  Easter — and  the  friendly  parties  went 
roaming  to  the  Downs,  to  the  Beacon  or 
towards  the  Briary. 

The  Briary,  where  the  Prinseps  from  Little 
Holland  House  were  living,  belonged  to  Watts 
the  painter,  for  whom  Philip  Webb  had  built 
it.  They  were  interesting  people  living  there, 
and  curiously  picturesque  in  their  looks  and 
habits,  to  which  the  influence  of  the  Signor,  as 
we  called  Mr.  Watts,  contributed  unconsciously. 

He  and  Mr.  Prinsep  wore  broad  hats  and 


CORRESPONDENCE  23 

cloaks,  and  so  did  Tennyson  himself  and  his 
brothers.  People  walking  in  the  lanes  would 
stand  to  see  them  go  by. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Cameron's  correspondence 
never  ceased — however  interesting  her  visitors 
were  and  whatever  the  attractions  of  the  moment 
might  be.  She  would  sit  at  her  desk  until  the 
last  moment  of  the  dispatch.  Then,  when  the 
postman  had  hurried  off,  she  would  send 
the  gardener  running  after  him  with  some 
extra  packet  labelled  "  immediate."  Soon 
after,  the  gardener's  boy  would  follow  pursuing 
the  gardener  with  an  important  postscript,  and, 
finally,  I  can  remember  the  donkey  being 
harnessed  and  driven  galloping  all  the  way  to 
Yarmouth,  arriving  as  the  post-bags  were  being 
closed.  Even  when  she  was  away  from  Fresh- 
water, Mrs.  Cameron  still  chose  to  rule  time 
and  circumstance. 

She  sends  word  to  Tennyson  : 

"  Dear  Alfred, — I  wrote  to  you  from  the 
Wandsworth  Station  yesterday  on  the  way  to 
Bromley.  As  I  was  folding  your  letter  came 
the  scream  of  the  train,  and  then  the  yells  of 
the  porters  with  the  threats  that  the  train  would 
not  wait  for  me,  so  that  although  I  got  as  far 
in  the  direction  as  your  name,  I  was  obliged  to 
run  down  the  steps,  and  trust  the  directing  and 
despatch  of  the  whole  to  strange  hands.  I 
would  rather  have  kept  back  my  letter  than 


24      FROM    FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 

have  thus  risked  it,  had  it  not  been  for  my 
extreme  desire  to  hear  of  your  wife.  Day 
after  day  I  get  more  anxious  to  hear  and  then 
I  write  again,  and  thus  I  write,  not  to  bore  you 
by  satisfying  my  own  heart's  wish,  but  to  know 
if  I  can  be  of  any  help  or  comfort.  I  have 
been  writing  one  of  my  longest  letters  to  Sir 
John  Herschell  to-day,  but  I  won't  inflict  the 
like  upon  you."  (Then  came  many  pages  of 
the  reasons  which  prevented  her  from  writing.) 
After  she  came  to  live  near  the  Tennysons, 
Mrs.  Cameron  had  no  sense  of  ever  having 
done  enough  for  them  or  more  than  enough. 
She  would  arrive  at  Farringford  at  all  hours, 
convenient  and  inconvenient,  entering  by  the 
door,  by  the  drawing-room  window,  always 
bringing  goodwill  and  life  in  her  train.  She 
would  walk  in  at  night  followed  by  friends,  by 
sons  carrying  lanterns,  by  nieces,  by  maids 
bearing  parcels  and  photographs.  Hers  was 
certainly  a  gift  for  making  life  and  light  for 
others,  though  at  times  I  have  known  her 
spirits  sink  into  deepest  depths  as  do  those  of 
impressionable  people.  Torch-bearers  some- 
times consume  themselves  and  burn  some  of 
their  own  life  and  spirit  in  the  torches  they 
carry.  When  Julia  Cameron  took  to  photo- 
graphy, her  enthusiasm  was  infectious  and  her 
beautiful  pictures  seemed  a  revelation.  She 
was   an    artist   at  heart   and   she   never   felt 


PHOTOGRAPHY  25 

satisfied  till  she  found  her  own  channel  of 
expression  in  these  new  developments.  Watts 
greatly  encouraged  her,  and  I  heard  him  say 
of  one  of  her  pictures  of  himself,  that  he  knew 
no  finer  portrait  among  the  old  Masters. 

One  of  her  admirers,  F.  D.  Maurice,  wrote  : 

if  Had  we  such  portraits  of  Shakespeare 
and  Milton,  we  should  know  more  of  their  own 
selves.  We  should  have  better  commentaries 
on  '  Hamlet '  and  on  '  Comus  '  than  we  now 
possess,  even  as  you  have  secured  to  us  a  better 
commentary  on  'Maud'  and  'In  Memoriam ' 
than  all  our  critics  ever  will  give  us." 

Browning,  Darwin,  Carlyle,  Lecky,  Sir 
John  Herschell,  Henry  Taylor  with  his  flowing 
beard,  were  all  among  her  sitters  and  still  reveal 
themselves  to  us  through  her.  She  photo- 
graphed without  ceasing,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  and  summoned  every  one  round  about 
to  watch  the  process. 

11 1  turned  my  coal-house  into  a  dark  room," 
she  wrote,  "  and  a  glazed  fowl-house  I  had 
given  to  my  children  became  my  glass  house, 
the  society  of  hens  and  chickens  was  soon 
changed  into  that  of  poets,  prophets,  painters, 
children  and  lovely  maidens.  I  worked  fruit- 
lessly but  not  hopelessly.  ...  I  longed  to 
arrest  all  the  beauty  that  came  before  me,  and 
at  length  the  longing  was  satisfied/' 


26     FROM    FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

Miss  Marie  Spartali,  a  very  beautiful  young 
lady  who  had  come  over  to  pose  as  Hypatia  to 
Mrs.  Cameron,  described  finding  her  absorbed 
in  another  sitter,  her  parlourmaid,  Mary  Hillier, 
draped  and  patient,  representing  some  mytho- 
logical personage.  There  was  a  ring  at  the 
outer  bell ;  focussing  in  those  days  took  long 
and  anxious  minutes,  and  as  Mary  Hillier  could 
not  be  allowed  to  move,  Miss  Spartali  went 
to  the  door,  where  the  visitor,  seeing  this  lovely 
apparition  dressed  in  wonderful  attire,  exclaimed, 
"  Are  you  then  the  beautiful  parlourmaid  ?  " 
This  little  ancient  joke  is  still  quoted  against 
the  beautiful  lady. 

How  familiar  to  all,  who  were  forced  by 
the  photographer  into  the  little  studio,  is  the 
remembrance  of  the  mingled  scent  of  chemicals 
and  sweetbriar  already  meeting  one  in  the 
road  outside  Dimbola !  The  terrors  of  the 
studio  itself  are  still  remembered,  the  long 
painful  waiting,  when  we  would  have  trembled 
had  we  dared  to  do  so,  under  impetuous  direc- 
tions to  be  absolutely  still. 

This  is  her  own  description  of  her  art, 
writing  to  Mrs.  Tennyson  : 

"  I  send  you  dear  Louie  Simeon's  letter 
to  show  how  they  all  value  the  likeness  of 
the  father  of  that  house  and  home.  It 
is  a  sacred  blessing  which  has  attended 
my    photography.       It   gives    a    pleasure    to 


LAVISH    GENEROSITY  27 

millions    and    a    deeper     happiness    to    very 
many.  .  .  ." 

The  coffee  crop  had  failed  in  Ceylon  several 
years  and  money  difficulties  became  very 
serious  for  the  Camerons.  Photography  might 
have  paid  better  if  the  photographer  had  been 
less  lavish  in  her  gifts  and  ways.  She  was  a 
true  artist  in  her  attitude  towards  money.* 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  let  you  ruin  yourself  by 
giving  the  photographs  away,"  Mrs.  Tennyson 
wrote :  "  I  cannot  pretend  that  I  do  not  prize 
a  kindness  done  to  mine,  more  than  if  it  were 
done  to  myself,  still  I  feel  bound  to  point  with 
a  solemn  finger  to  those  stalwart  boys  of  yours, 
saying  *  Remember.'  I  see  that  I  shall  have 
to  set  up  a  shop  for  the  sale  of  photographs 
myself  all  for  your  benefit." 

To  these  remonstrances  the  photographer 
would  answer  :  "  I  have  always  tried  to  get  my 
husband  to  share  my  feelings.  So  long  as 
illness  and  death  are  mercifully  spared  us, 
dearth  is  to  deeper  wounds  only  a  grain."  Julia 
Cameron  was  not  a  woman  of  to-day.  She 
seemed  to  belong  to  some  heroic  past.  She 
has  told  me  how  as  a  girl  she  and  her  sister, 

*  She,  the  most  recklessly  generous  of  women,  was  able  to 
write  : 

**  I  myself  never  felt  humiliated  at  the  idea  of  receiving 
charities,  for  I  always  feel  about  friendship  and  love  that  what 
it  is  good  to  give  it  is  also  good  to  take," 


28     FROM    FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 

the  dearest  of  them  all,  used  to  wander  forth 
and  kneel  and  pray  on  the  country  roadsides. 

Once  when  her  eldest  son  went  through  a 
painful  operation,  which  lasted  some  time,  she 
had  held  his  hand  in  hers  through  it  all,  and 
he  said  he  could  not  have  endured  it  if  she  had 
not  been  present.  "  As  to  my  bearing  it,"  she 
said  simply,  "  what  is  there  one  cannot  bear  if 
one  can  give  one  grain  of  helpful  support  to 
any  sufferer  ?  " 

Of  a  friend  in  great  trouble  she  writes  : 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  time  with  him  will 
soften  the  calamity.  God  grant  it  may,  but 
with  some 

" c  Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear.' 

"In  the  case  of  my  absence  from  my  boys, 
the  more  it  is  prolonged,  the  more  the  wound 
seems  to  widen." 

It  was  during  her  husband's  absence  that 
she  wrote  : 

"  I  found  when  I  was  with  you  the  tears 
were  too  near  my  eyes  to  venture  to  read  out 
aloud  Charles's  letters.  I  am  in  very  truth 
very  unhappy.  I  assume  vivacity  of  manner 
for  my  own  sake  as  well  as  for  others,  but  the 
only  real  vivacity  now  at  this  moment  in  me 
is  to  conjure  up  every  form  of  peril,  and  my 
heart  is  more  busy  when  sleeping  than   when 


PEREMPTORINESS  29 

waking.  When  waking  I  fag  myself  to  the 
uttermost  by  any  manner  of  occupation,  hoping 
thus  to  keep  the  wheels  of  time  working  till 


I  hear  again." 


V 


The  legends  are  endless  of  Mrs.  Cameron's 
doings  at  Freshwater,  and  to  this  day  the  older 
villagers  retell  of  them — of  the  window  she  built 
and  equipped  in  the  room  destined  for  Sir  Henry 
Taylor.  It  was  an  east  room  ;  she  thought  it 
looked  dark  in  the  afternoon  and  she  determined 
that  a  western  window  should  be  there  when 
her  guest  arrived  next  day.  The  village 
carpenter  and  his  assistant  builder  sawed  and 
worked  late  into  the  night,  in  the  early  morning 
the  glazier  was  summoned;  when  the  passengers 
arrived  from  the  three  o'clock  boat  the  window 
was  there,  the  western  light  was  pouring  into 
the  spare  room  through  the  panes,  and  Mrs. 
Cameron's  maid  was  putting  the  last  stitches 
to  the  muslin  blind.  Another  inspiration  of 
hers  was  a  lawn,  also  spread  in  a  single  night, 
for  Mr.  Cameron  to  stroll  along  when  he  went 
for  his  morning  walk  next  day. 

She  used  to  bring  wayfarers  of  every  sort 
in  from  the  roads  outside.  We  still  may 
recognise  some  of  the  models  living  at  Fresh- 
water— the  beautiful  parlourmaid,  King  Arthur 
who  in  robes  and  armoured  dignity  appears  so 


30     FROM   FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

often  in  her  camera,  and  who,  till  a  year  ago 
still  met  travellers  by  the  little  steamer  that 
runs  from  Lymington  to  Yarmouth  Pier. 
Indeed  wayfarers  of  every  sort  were  made 
welcome  by  her.  After  my  father's  death  she 
brought  us  to  her  cottage,  where  fires  of 
hospitality  and  sympathy  were  lighted  and 
endless  kindness  and  helping  affection  sur- 
rounded us  from  her  and  from  Farringford  all 
through  that  cold  and  icy  winter.  When  spring 
had  passed  and  when  at  last  summer  was  over, 
we  gratefully  returned  to  the  sheltering  bay 
where  such  good  friends  were  to  be  found,  and 
so  we  did  for  long  years  after. 

The  Camerons'  departure  for  Ceylon  in 
1875  will  long  be  remembered— the  farewells, 
the  piles  of  luggage.  Mrs.  Cameron,  grave  and 
valiant,  with  a  thousand  cares  and  preoccupa- 
tions. Mr.  Cameron,  with  long  white  locks 
falling  over  his  shoulders  and  dark  eyes  gleaming 
through  spectacles,  holding  his  carved  ivory 
cane  in  his  hand  and  looking  quietly  at  the 
preparations.  There  were  animals— a  cow,  I 
have  been  told,  among  them,  bales  and  boxes 
without  number,  their  faithful  maid  Ellen  and 
their  son  Hardinge,  that  spirited  prop  and 
adviser,  ordering  and  arranging  everything. 
He  travelled  with  them,  for  he  was  on  his  way 
back  to  his  post  in  the  Civil  Service  at  Colombo. 
Many  of  us  came  down  to  Southampton  to  see 


DEPARTURE    FOR  CEYLON      u 


j 


them  off  in  the  vast  ship  manned  by  Lascars, 
crowded  with  passengers  and  heaving  from 
confusion  into  order. 

I  can  still  see  Mr.  Cameron  in  his  travelling 
dress  looking  quietly  up  and  down  the  quay  at 
the  piles  of  luggage,  at  the  assembled  friends  ; 
he  held  a  pink  rose  which  Mrs.  Tennyson  had 
given  him  when  he  stopped  at  Farringford  to 
take  leave  of  her.  A  member  of  Mr.  Cameron's 
family  whom  I  had  never  seen  before,  for  he 
had  lived  in  India,  had  come  from  London 
with  his  wife  and  was  standing  taking  leave 
with  the  rest  of  us.  He  was  strangely  like 
Mr.  Cameron,  with  white  hair  and  bright  fixed 
eyes ;  and  even  then,  starting  though  they  were 
for  the  great  venture,  Mrs.  Cameron  came 
forward  and  said  to  me  that  I  must  go  back  to 
town  with  her  step-son  and  he  would  look  after 
me.  ...  I  remember  presently  finding  myself 
sitting  in  the  railway  carriage,  sadly  flying 
home — away  from  the  good  friends  of  many 
a  year,  and  vaguely  wondering  at  the  living 
likeness  of  Mr.  Cameron  sitting  on  the  opposite 
seat.  Then  at  Waterloo,  after  putting  me  into 
a  hansom,  even  the  likeness  departed  and  I 
never  saw  either  of  the  two  again. 

VI 

It  is  pleasant  to  read  of  the  happy  progress 
of  the  travellers. 


32      FROM    FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 

From  Julia  Margaret  Cameron  to  Alfred 
and  Emily  Tennyson, 

.     "  1875. 

".  .  .  I  now  continue  my  letter  in  revived 
spirits,  having  left  the  month  of  partings 
behind,  and  having  entered  to-day  the  month 
of  meetings.  I  think  Ewen  will  send  forth  my 
Benjamin  to  greet  me.  My  Har,  endowed 
with  double  my  prudence,  has  hitherto  pre- 
vented me  from  telegraphing  to  tell  my  boys 
that  we  had  actually  started.  I  resisted  at 
Freshwater.  Resisted  at  Southampton.  Har- 
dinge  prevented  me  at  Gibraltar,  prevented  me 
at  Malta.  He  says  Aden  is  the  best  spot,  for 
we  can  then  announce  we  have  got  over  the 
Red  Sea. 

"  I  need  not  say  how  often  and  often  I  am 
with  you  both  in  thought.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  amidst  all  this  bustling  world  of  380 
people,  my  husband  sits  in  majesty  like  a 
being  from  another  sphere,  his  white  hair 
shining  like  the  foam  of  the  sea  and  his  white 
hands  holding  on  each  side  his  golden  chain." 

They  Travel  on  to  Malta. 

u  A  real  gem  of  the  ocean ;  everything 
glittered  like  a  fairy  world,  the  sapphire  sea, 
the  pearl-white  houses,  the  emerald  and  ruby 
boats,  the  shining  steps,  a  hundred  and  thirty- 
two  in  number,  from  the  Ouai  to  the  town — 


MALTA  53 

all  was  delicious.  As  Har  observed,  I  was 
the  most  childlike  and  exuberant  of  the  party 
— only  one  thing  disappointed  me,  that  I  did 
not  telegraph  to  my  Ceylon  boys.  We  visited 
the  Cathedral  of  St.  John.  How  delicious  the 
silence  was  after  the  life  on  board !  What  a 
holy  joy  to  kneel  down  in  that  solemn,  silent 
temple  and  feel  oneself  alone  with  one's  God  ! " 

Her  sympathy  for  the  ship's  captain  must 
not  be  omitted  : 

"We  have  daily  prayers,  and  the  Sunday 
evening  service  is  specially  imposing,  with  the 
dark  ocean  around,  *  The  lamps  filled  with 
everlasting  oil'  above  and  the  ship  lamps 
hanging  on  the  deck,  and  the  one  voice,  like 
St.  John  in  the  Wilderness,  crying  to  every 
one  to  repent." 

She  raises  subscriptions  for  a  harmonium 
on  board  as  a  token  of  gratitude  to  the  captain 
— "  one  in  a  thousand." 

Mr.  Cameron  would  not  land  at  Malta ;  it 
had  painful  memories  for  him  ;  he  had  been 
there  as  a  child  with  his  beautiful  mother, 
Lady  Margaret,  and  his  father,  who  was 
Governor  of  the  Island. 

As  they  glide  through  the  Suez  Canal 
Mrs.  Cameron  writes  : 

"  It  is  an  honour  to  the  French  nation  that 
in  the  face  of  all  assertions  of  impossibility  from 


34     FROM    FRIEND   TO   FRIEND 

men  of  all  countries,  Lesseps  persevered  and 
achieved  this  mighty  enterprise.  Whilst  I  write 
we  pass  a  pier,  and  at  the  end  of  it  is  a  whole 
flock  of  camels,  with  camel  drivers,  waiting  to 
see  if  any  one  cares  to  cross  the  Desert ;  no 
one  does  care,  so  we  glide  on." 

"  The  only  time  I  crossed,  my  Har  was  a 
baby  in  my  arms,  whom  I  never  for  one 
instant  put  down.  We  crossed  through  a 
beautiful  starlight  night.  I  have  never  for- 
gotten the  rising  of  the  morning  star  nor  the 
utter  silence ;  one  seemed  to  lose  the  idea  of 
time  and  to  feel  in  a  land  that  could  have  had 
no  beginning  and  still  less  could  have  no  end." 

As  she  finished  her  letter  the  young  moon 
is  hanging  over  the  vessel. 

"  O  what  good  it  does  to  one's  soul  to  go 
forth  !  How  it  heals  all  the  little  frets  and 
insect-stings  of  life,  to  feel  the  pulse  of  the 
large  world  and  to  count  all  men  as  one's 
brethren  and  to  merge  one's  individual  self  in 
the  thoughts  of  the  mighty  whole !  " 

Here  is  another  letter  written  a  year  later 
to  Mrs.  Tennyson  : 

"  Easter,  1876. 

"My  own  Beloved  and  Sweetest  Friend, — 
This  day's  post  brought  me  your  letter,  so 
strong  in  love,  so  feeble  in  calligraphy,  in  the 
wielding  of  that  pen  which  is  meant  to  say  so 


IN   CEYLON  35 

much  but  which  now  trembles  in  the  hand  which 
used  never  to  tire.     Its  very  trembling  is  ex- 
pressive of  all  that  you  have  it  in  your  heart  to 
say.     How  glad    I    am  that   your    sons,   that 
Alfred's  sons,  should  be  what  they  are  !     How 
truly  does  an  answer  seem  to  be  given  in  them 
to  your  life  of  holy  prayer !     I  do  so  devoutly 
wish  that  you  could  spend  next  winter  here,  the 
air  is  so  uplifting  and  so  life-giving.     I  think 
my  illness  on  arrival  was  the  result  of  all  that 
I  suffered  mentally  and    bodily,  the  hurry  of 
that   decision,    the  worry   of  all  minutiae,   the 
anguish  of  some  partings,  the  solemnity  of  all, 
the  yielding  to  my  husband's  absorbing  desire, 
and  the  yearning  need  to  live  with  my  absent 
children,  all  this  is   satisfied,  and  beyond  all 
this,    beyond    the   inward    content ;    there   is 
certainly  a   strength   given   by  the  aspect  of 
nature  in  the  Island." 

After  describing  Ceylon  and  its  beauties, 
the  mother  returns  to  the  theme  she  loves  best 
of  all,  that  of  her  son  Hardinge,  who  had  just 
paid  her  a  visit. 

"  He  wore  for  my  sake  his  very  brightest 
looks,  and  you  know  there  is  no  cheer  like  his. 
His  spirits  dance  with  intellectual  freshness 
and  buoyancy,  all  his  talk  is  mirth  and  wide 
pleasantry,  and  his  voice  is  full  of  song. 

"  He  has  to  travel  in  districts,  sleeping  in 


36      FROM    FRIEND    TO    FRIEND 

the  open,  and  my  imagination  represents  the 
invasion  of  beasts  and  reptiles.  He  walks 
through  long  grass  where  I  fear  snakes  for  his 
beloved  feet.  He  says  alligators  on  the  river- 
side are  the  only  beasts  he  sees,  alligators  ten 
or  twelve  feet  long."  (Here  many  pages  follow 
partly  concerning  Ceylon  and  the  people  who 
then  lived  there,  partly  concerning  Freshwater 
and  its  politics.)  "  And  how  is  your  dear 
Alfred,  dearest  of  all  and  greatest  ever  in  your 
heart  beyond  all  ;  above  all,  I  hope  not  bothered 
about  anything  ?  .  .  .  Worries,  for  him,  are  as 
if  these  vast  sublime  mountains,  instead  of 
standing  steady  as  they  do,  rearing  their  eternal 
heads  to  the  sky,  were  to  be  swayed  by  the 
perishable  chances  of  the  little  coffee-estates 
at  their  feet. 

"  What  is  time  in  the  eyes  of  Him  to  whom 
a  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday,  and  who 
pities  us  when  we  vex  our  immortal  souls  with 
fears  of  more  or  less  gold,  and  good  crops,  one 
year  or  another  ? 

"  Think  of  us  in  a  little  hut  with  only  mud 
walls,  four  thousand  four  hundred  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea." 

It  was  in  her  youngest  son's  bungalow  on 
the  Glencairn  estate  that  Mrs.  Cameron  died, 
early  in  1879,  only  a  short  time  after  her  second 
return  to  Ceylon.  She  had  been  warned  not  to 
return,  but  she  longed  to  be  near  "  her  boys." 


THE    BURIAL   GROUND  37 

The  illness  only  lasted  ten  days.  When 
she  lay  dying,  her  bed  faced  the  wide-open 
window ;  it  was  a  glorious  evening  and  some 
big  stars  were  shining.  She  looked  out  and 
just  said,  M  Beautiful"  and  died,  her  last  word, 
a  fitting  end  to  her  reverent  soul  on  earth. 
Her  body  was  taken  in  a  low  open  cart,  drawn 
by  two  great  white  bullocks,  and  all  covered 
with  white  cloths,  over  two  ridges  of  mountains, 
and  buried  in  the  little  churchyard  at  the  bottom 
of  the  valley,  between  Galle  and  Colombo, 
where  Hardinge  was  living.  After  this  Hard- 
inge  took  his  father  and  his  mother's  maid, 
Ellen  Ottington,  "  old  E,"  to  live  with  him 
there.  It  was  in  May  of  the  following  year 
that  Mr.  Cameron  died,  and  he  too  was  carried 
over  the  mountains  and  buried  in  the  church- 
yard where  his  wife  was  lying. 

"  I  can't  describe  to  you  the  beauty  of  that 
valley,"  writes  Mrs.  Bowden  Smith,  who  sent 
this  record.  "  High  mountains  surround  it 
and  rolling  green  grass  lands,  and  a  great  river 
runs  all  along  it.  The  little  church  stands  on 
a  knoll  not  far  above  the  river,  which  flows  into 
a  lower  river,  also  a  dream  of  beauty.  They 
could  not  have  found  a  more  beautiful  restinp-- 
place. 

Lady  Tennyson  survived  her  friend  seven- 
teen years. 


38     FROM   FRIEND   TO    FRIEND 

"  Such  wert  thou,  half  a  Saint  and  half  a  Queen, 
Close  in  thy  poet's  mighty  soul  enshrined, 
Lady  of  Farringford."* 

And  some  one  who  loved  her,  speaking 
lately  said  to  me : 

"  Though  her  vocation  was  to  be  a  poet's 
wife  she  reminded  me  of  a  holy  Abbess  of  old, 
and  there  was  something  almost  cloistral  about 
her." 

She  had  a  gift,  we  all  felt,  of  harmonising 
and  quieting  by  her  presence  alone ;  often  too 
tired  to  say  much,  she  could  contribute  the 
right  word  to  the  talk  for  which  Farringford 
was  always  notable.  I  have  a  special  memory 
of  once  dining  with  the  Tennysons  in  the 
company  of  George  Eliot  and  Lord  Acton,  but 
it  was  Mrs.  Tennyson's  gentle  voice  which 
seemed  to  take  the  lead. 

The  following  paper  left  by  Lady  Tennyson 
concerning  her  husband  might  seem  almost  too 
intimate  to  quote  here,  if  it  did  not  give  so  truly 
the  atmosphere  at  Farringford  that  one  does 
not  like  to  omit  it  :— 

"  .  .  .  He  felt  intensely  the  sin  and  all  the 
evils  of  the  world  and  all  its  mystery,  and  still 
kept  an  unshaken  faith  in  the  God  of  perfect 
love,  perfect  wisdom  and  infinite  power,  with 
that    assurance   of    man's    immortality   which 

*  Edith  Sichel. 


TENNYSON  39 

pointed  to  a  hereafter  where  all  would  be  recon- 
ciled.     '  Be   ye   perfect,   as    your    Father    in 
Heaven  is  perfect.'      In  the  life  of  Christ  he 
found   his    Christianity  ;    undisturbed    by    the 
jarring  of  sects  and  creeds.     Politics  were  to 
him  patriotism,  and   passionately  did  he  feel 
for  all  that  concerned  the  welfare  of  the  Empire. 
Party,  as  far  as  his  own  personal  opinion  went, 
was  unintelligible.     That  all  should  work  con- 
scientiously and  harmoniously  for  the  common 
good,  each  with  such  differing  powers  as  God 
has  given  to  each,  recognising  the  value  of  the 
difference,  this  was  his  highest  idea  of  Empire." 

Speaking  of  his  wife  Tennyson  once  said  : 
"  I  felt  the  peace  of  God  come  into  my  life  at 
the  altar  before  which  I  married  her."  And 
after  more  than  forty  years  of  marriage  he 
dedicated  his  last  book  to  her. 

"  I  thought  to  myself  I  would  offer  this  work  to  you, 

This,  and  my  love  together, 

To  you  that  are  seventy-seven, 
With  a  faith  as  clear  as  the  height  of  the  June-blue  heaven, 

And  a  fancy  as  summer-new 
As  the  green  of  the  bracken  amid  the  gloom  of  the  heather." 


MRS.   SARTORIS 

1814-1879 

1 

Most  children  share  their  parents'  lives  long 
before  they  are  able  to  realise  what  these  lives 
really  are ;  moreover,  working  parents  have 
this  advantage  over  playing  parents,  that  their 
efforts,  successful  or  otherwise,  form  no  small 
part  of  their  children's  existence.  The  vital 
events  of  the  family  belong  to  the  nursery  as 
well  as  to  the  parlour ;  they  bring  a  certain 
experience  along  with  them,  a  sympathy,  a 
fellow-feeling,  even  if  it  is  but  that  of  infants  at 
play. 

The  daily  life  of  the  Kembles,  their  heroic 
standard  of  attainment,  their  high  aspirations, 
their  fine  spirit  in  the  front  of  disaster,  their 
intelligence  and  modesty  in  success,  was  the 
school  from  which  the  two  sisters,  Frances  and 
Adelaide  Kemble,  came  forth  :  accomplished, 
competent  women,  with  rare  gifts  and  know- 
ledge, and  with  a  natural  dignity  to  fit — and  to 
unfit — them  for  the  world.  That  they  should 
have  been  stamped  by  their  early  surroundings 
is  but  a  part  of  the  ruling  of  Fate,  which,  with 


THE    KEMBLES  41 

all  its  incongruities,  shows  so  much  consistency 
and  good  sense,  if  one  may  venture  to  use  such 
an  expression  concerning  Fate. 

In  this  remarkable,  most  stormy,  family 
there  must  have  been  strange  and  rapid  changes 
from  darkness  to  bright  sunshine,  many  flashes 
of  light  and  lightning  too.  The  Kembles 
strike  one  somehow  as  a  race  apart  when  one 
follows  their  story  from  book  to  book :  they 
seem  divided  from  the  rest  of  us  by  more 
dominant  natures,  by  more  expressive  ways 
and  looks  ;  reading  of  them  one  is  reminded 
sometimes  of  those  deities  who  once  visited  the 
earth  in  the  guise  of  shepherds,  as  wanderers 
clad  in  lion-skins,  as  muses  and  huntresses,  not 
as  Kembles  only. 

The  writer  is  glad  to  think  her  own  time 
has  overlapped  that  of  this  heroic  race,  which 
also  possessed  what  the  ancient  gods  certainly 
had  not,  a  sense  of  humour  to  link  with 
humanity.  Common  records  do  |not  reach 
much  beyond  the  days  of  Roger  Kemble,  the 
Jacob  of  the  family;  but  one  reads  that  once 
in  far  distant  times  Kembles  and  Campbells 
were  one,  and  of  Roger  we  learn  that  he,  too, 
was  handsome,  that  he  married  a  manager's 
daughter,  and  deferred  to  his  wife. 

"  Give  '  The  Tempest,'  madam,"  he  cried 
"  How  can  we  give  '  The  Tempest'  ?  Who  is 
there    to    play    Prospero  ?  "      "I    will    play 


42  MRS.  SARTORIS 

Prospero,  sir,"  said  the  Mrs.  Kemble  of  those 
days,  speaking  with  authority,  and  from  this 
definite  lady  came  the  great  John,  also  the 
great  Sarah,  born  immediately  after  the  giving 
of  "The  Tempest,"  and  twenty  years  later  the 
youngest  son,  Charles,  whose  looks  in  marble 
effigy  (shown  to  us  by  a  host  one  day,  on  the 
stairs  of  the  Garrick  Club)  Apollo  himself 
might  have  envied.  Charles  Kemble,  this 
handsome  gentleman,  was  my  father's  old 
friend  and  the  father  of  Fanny  and  of  Adelaide 
Kemble,  whose  looks,  especially  the  younger 
sisters  noble  outline,  so  much  resembled  his. 
These  classic  brows  and  deep-set  eyes  are 
again  to  be  found  in  Mrs.  Siddons'  beautiful 
portraits. 

The  sons,  being  often  away  at  school  and 
at  college,  fell  less  under  the  influence  of  the 
highly  wrought  home  atmosphere  than  did  the 
two  daughters  of  the  house.  John  Mitchell 
Kemble  was  well  known  as  an  archaeologist  and 
a  literary  student;  the  younger  was  Henry, 
of  whom  I  once  heard  my  father  say,  that  he 
was  in  early  youth  the  most  beautiful  boy  he 
had  ever  seen. 

Fanny  Kemble  was  six  years  older  than 
Adelaide.  In  her  "Records  of  a  Girlhood " 
there  are  many  apparitions  of  "little  sister" 
Adelaide.  The  fanciful  brilliant  child,  mature 
and  immature,  with  her  many  gifts,  of  silver 


FANNY    KEMBLE'S    -RECORDS"    43 

speech,  of  golden  music,  her  quick  wit,  her 
sensitive,  impassioned  moods,  appears  now 
and  again  and  is  always  herself,  There  are 
pretty  pictures  given  of  the  children's  early 
days  and  love  for  country  things,  of  the 
cottage  at  Weybridge  to  which  Mrs.  Charles 
Kemble,  the  mother,  used  to  take  them,  spend- 
ing long  summers  there — happy  for  the  children 
and  soothing  for  the  mother.  She  is  described 
as  she  stands  fishing  by  the  river,  hour  after 
hour,  with  her  family  surrounding  her.  "  We 
were  each  of  us  armed  with  a  rod,"  Fanny 
Kemble  says,  t(  and  were  more  or  less  interested 
in  the  sport.  We  often  started  after  an  early 
breakfast,  and,  taking  our  luncheon  with  us, 
remained  the  whole  day  long  absorbed  in  our 
quiet  occupation."  Mrs.  Sartoris  used  to  say 
that  the  passionate-hearted  mother  needed  the 
calming  rest  of  the  tranquil  waters,  and  flew  to 
them  for  peace  and  refreshment  from  the  strain 
and  emotions  of  her  London  life. 

Little  Adelaide,  whose  "tender-hefted" 
nature,  says  the  elder  sister,  revolted  against 
baiting  the  hook,  alone  hated  the  fishing. 
Besides  these  sports  the  children  played  cricket 
when  the  boys  came  home  from  school,  Fanny 
being  promoted  to  all  the  dignities  of  "  long- 
stop."  We  hear  no  details  of  Adelaide's 
cricket,  but  I  have  no  doubt  she,  too,  played 
her    part  :     all    her    life    long    she     always 


44  MRS.  SARTORIS 

endeavoured  to  do  whatever  was  being  done 
around  her ;  it  was  a  theory  which  she  always 
preached  and  tried  to  carry  out  to  the  last. 

After  learning  how  to  fish  and  how  to  play 
cricket,  Fanny  Kemble  was  sent  to  Paris  to 
be  made  accomplished  in  other  ways.  Little 
Adelaide  meanwhile  seems,  from  her  own 
account,  to  have  been  left  to  run  about  the 
country  at  her  own  free  will — neglected  and 
untaught.  She  used  to  speak  of  her  early 
youth  with  sadness  not  untinged  with  bitterness 
— so  an  old  friend  has  told  me.  Meanwhile 
the  parents'  hopes  were  centred  upon  Fanny. 

In  the  museum  at  Stratford-on-Avon  there 
is  a  picture  connected  with  these  youthful  days, 
when  as  a  Juliet  of  seventeen  Fanny  Kemble 
took  the  public  by  storm.  She  was  attired  on 
this  occasion  in  the  traditional  white  satin 
dress,  and  the  painter  represents  the  mother 
herself  superintending  her  daughter's  dressing. 
The  girl  is  looking  at  herself  shyly  in  a  long 
glass  :  it  is  an  interesting  representation  of  the 
scene  so  admirably  described  in  the  "  Records." 

Adelaide's  first  teaching  came  from  her 
devoted  aunt  "  Dal,"  her  namesake  and  the 
good  angel  of  the  house,  whom  both  sisters 
always  held  in  tender  remembrance.  Mrs. 
Charles  Kemble's  keen,  highly  strung  nerves 
could  not  always  bear  with  early  efforts.  From 
sheer  apprehension  of  her  mother's  agonised 


WEBER  45 

exclamations,  Fanny  declares  she  herself  often 
played  false  chords  and  sang  false  notes  in  her 
presence ;  but  she  describes  her  sister's  early 
natural  and  more  certain  gift  for  music  steadily 
growing.  There  is  a  ballad  by  Bishop,  "  O 
there's  a  mountain  palm,"  which  Adelaide 
sang,  she  says,  with  a  "  clear,  high,  sweet,  true 
little  voice  and  touching  expression.  ..." 
The  writer  can  also  remember  her  own  father's 
description  of  the  girl  making  music,  as  indeed 
she  did  all  her  life  long.  He  was  quite  a 
young  man  then,  lately  come  to  London,  and 
was  living  very  near  to  Great  Russell  Street 
and  the  corner  house  which  had  been  John 
Kemble's  home,  and  to  which  Charles  and  his 
family  moved  in  1830. 

My  father  has  told  me  that  when  he  first 
saw  "  Miss  Totty"  she  was  playing  on  a  guitar, 
the  most  charming  and  graceful  figure  imagin- 
able. As  I  read  in  Fanny  Kemble's  memoirs 
"  that  she  has  bought  A.  the  guitar  she  had 
promised  her"  from  the  proceeds  of  her  first 
play,  published  by  John  Murray,  I  remember 
this  early  tradition. 

These  were  the  days  when  Weber  had 
come  over  to  England  to  conduct  his  own 
noble  measures,  when  "  Der  Freischiitz  "  was 
brought  out  at  Covent  Garden,  to  be  followed 
by  "Oberon."  It  was  a  time  of  golden  promise 
— poets  were   young   and  writing   their  best, 


46  MRS.  SARTORIS 

music  was  sounding;  while  Miss  Totty  was 
studying  hers,  Mendelssohn  and  Rossini  were 
stirring  a  vivid  and  impulsive  generation  to 
enthusiasm.  Weber's  exquisite  masterpieces 
were  ringing  in  people's  ears. 

For  the  writer  herself,  the  Mermaid's  Song 
from  "  Oberon  *  first  came  to  life  years  after  in 
a  Paris  drawing-room  ;  where  among  shaded 
lights  and  flowers,  and  in  the  company — so  it 
seemed  at  that  time — of  fairy  troubadours  and 
princes  (perhaps  after  all  they  were  only 
attaches  from  the  Embassy  close  by),  she 
listened  to  the  lovely  notes  floating  across 
from  an  inner  room,  where  the  musician  stood 
surrounded  by  her  chivalrous  young  audience.* 
Mrs.  Sartoris  had  the  instinct  of  a  real  musician, 
and  also  that  of  a  good  hostess :  she  liked  her 
listeners  to  be  a  part  of  her  music ;  she  liked 
the  same  faces  round  her  again  and  again  ;  she 
liked  an  atmosphere  peaceful,  yet  glowing  and 
vibrating  with  her  emotion  ;  she  liked  to  see 
charming  faces,  young  and  gay,  handsome  and 

*  Mr.  Hamilton  Aide*  was  present  when  Rossini  himself  for 
the  first  time  heard  this  Mermaid's  Song,  which  was  indeed 
almost  the  last  utterance  of  the  dying  Weber.  Rossini  expressed 
his  natural  and  unreserved  admiration,  and  said  how  much  he 
should  have  wished  to  know  Weber  personally.  When  Rossini 
heard  that  Weber  had  hesitated  to  meet  him  because  he  had 
once  written  severely  and  even  contemptuously  of  Rossini's 
music,  "Tell  him,w  said  Rossini,  "tell  him  from  me,  that  I 
consider  it  an  honour  to  have  been  noticed  at  all  by  him  at 
that  time." 


EARLY   SUCCESSES  47 

sympathetic.  Others  among  us  she  loved 
perhaps  for  other  reasons — for  she  was  faithful 
to  old  friends  as  well  as  to  young  ones.  She 
was  a  born  artist  in  daily  life  as  well  as  in 
music,  and  she  used  daily  life  as  if  it  were 
music  to  be  enjoyed  and  carefully  guarded  from 
false  notes. 


II 

When  Adelaide  Kemble  came  out  as  a 
singer  and  went  abroad  with  her  father  it  was 
one  long  progress  of  youth,  of  music,  of  arduous 
achievement,  of  responsive  applause  with  all 
the  horizons  of  Germany,  of  Austria,  for  a 
background.  Consuelo's  story  was  not  more 
romantic  than  that  of  this  young  prima  donna, 
nor  was  the  noble  independence  of  George 
Sands  heroine  more  remarkable  than  that  of 
this  English  maiden,  holding  her  own  with  so 
much  dignity  and  courage. 

Sometimes  she  must  have  been  very  lonely 
in  her  father's  absences,  being  herself  detained 
by  study  or  by  engagements  ;  sometimes  she 
was  surrounded  by  friends.  She  had  devoted 
friends  abroad,  as  well  as  at  home ;  some 
were  influential,  highly  placed,  others  humbler 
companions  of  her  toil. 

It  was  during  these  foreign  tours  that 
Adelaide    Kemble   formed   a   friendship   with 


48  MRS.  SARTORIS 

Dessauer,  the  fanciful  extraordinary  musician 
who  was  her  faithful  knight  and  follower 
through  so  many  difficult  passes,  and  whom 
she  partially  portrayed  as  Monsieur  Jacques  in 
that  charming  story  "A  Week  in  a  French 
Country  House."  Some  of  us  can  still  re- 
member her  singing  of  "  Ouvrez,  Ouvrez,"  a 
song  of  his  which  she  made  to  vibrate  with 
feeling. 

Both  Mrs.  Sartoris  and  Mrs.  Kemble  always 
spoke  of  Dessauer  affectionately,  recalling  his 
oddities,  his  quaint  simplicity.  "II  y  a  du 
danger,  je  te  quitte,"  became  a  family  saying. 
Mrs.  Sartoris  to  the  last  loved  to  go  back  to 
these  old  days.  She  used  as  a  girl  to  corre- 
spond with  one  very  warm  and  faithful  friend, 
the  Countess  de  Thun,  and  it  is  to  this  lady 
that  she  writes  of  Mario  as  follows  :  "  I  found 
on  my  return  to  London  a  letter  from  M.  de 
Candia  (Mario) — telling  me  that  he  had  at  last, 
in  despair  at  the  utter  neglect  of  his  family, 
accepted  an  engagement  at  the  Opera  in  Paris. 
He  is  not  to  make  his  dtbut  for  five  or  six 
months,  and  is  now  studying  hard  to  prepare. 
His  lovely  voice  and  his  pretty  face  are  alone 
enough  to  ensure  his  success."  Of  Madame 
Viardot  Garcia  she  says,  "  I  passed  a  delightful 
evening  at  Brussels  at  de  Beriots  house,  the 
mother  and  sister  of  poor  Malibran  are  both 
living  with  him.     Pauline  Garcia  and  I  sang 


CLARA    NOVELLO  49 

together.  You  cannot  think  how  well  our  two 
voices  went.  It  is  as  if  we  had  been  in  the 
constant  habit  of  practising  together,  and  de 
Beriot  played  our  accompaniments." 

Again,  in  another  of  her  early  letters  to 
Madame  de  Thun,  she  mentions  a  young 
English  concert  singer  who  was  meeting  with 
great  success.  "  Her  name  is  Novello,  her 
voice  is  exquisite,  not  so  strong  as  mine,  but 
far  sweeter  and  lovelier  ;  every  note  is  perfect, 
but  for  all  that  I  forbid  you  to  like  it  as  much 
as  mine;  so  it  is  that  one  is  tolerant  in  principle, 
and  tyrannical  in  action."  Speaking  of  the 
hundred  useless  things  people  insist  on  teaching 
the  young,  she  complains  that  they  dull  and 
blunt  the  keen  enjoyment  of  the  very  things 
they  would  improve.  "  I  think  myself  fortu- 
nate," she  says,  "  that  I  was  never  sent  to 
school.  Shakespeare  and  Milton  have  given 
me  far  pleasanter  thoughts  than  the  rule  of 
three,  and  the  many  accomplishments  now 
taught."  But  though  Adelaide  was  never  sent 
to  school,  she  went  to  Paris  to  study  music, 
and  my  own  father,  writing  in  a  melancholy 
mood  long  after  to  thank  his  old  friend  for  a 
present  of  game  she  had  sent  him  (and  which 
he  had  carved  as  usual  in  company),  alludes  to 
the  days  when  she  was  a  young  girl  learning 
to  sing  in  that  dismal  little  room  of  the  Rue  de 
Clichy.     "  Were  there  any  cares,   I   wonder  ? 


5o  MRS.  SARTORIS 

I  suppose  there  were,  but  the  enjoyments  were 
so  great  then  to  counterbalance;  a  five-franc 
dinner,  a  play  on  the  Boulevard,  and  a  grenier 
a  vi7igt  arts ! "  .  .  .  The  Rue  de  Clichy  of 
which  he  speaks  was  the  street  in  which  Miss 
Foster  lived,  under  whose  care  both  Fanny 
and  Adelaide  Kemble  were  placed,  when  they 
successively  went  to  Paris.  Then  each  in  turn 
came  out  and  made  her  mark,  and  each  in 
turn  married  and  left  the  stage  for  that  world 
in  which  real  tragedies  and  real  comedies  are 
still  happening,  and  where  men  and  women 
play  their  own  parts  instinctively  and  sing  their 
own  songs.  Adelaide's  short  artistic  career 
lasted  from  1835  to  1842,  long  enough  to 
impress  all  the  subsequent  years  of  her  life. 
With  all  the  welcoming  success  which  was 
hers,  there  must  have  been  many  a  moment  of 
disillusion,  discouragement,  and  suffering  for  a 
girl  so  original,  so  aristocratic  in  instinct,  so 
quick  of  perception,  so  individual.  u  De  la 
boheme  exquise"  some  great  lady  once  described 
her.  The  following  page  out  of  one  of  her 
early  diaries  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  one  side 
of  her  artistic  life  : 

" .  .  .  Received  an  intimation  that  the 
company  who  are  to  act  with  me  had  arrived 
at  Trieste,  and  would  be  here  at  eleven  to 
rehearse  the  music.  At  twelve  came  Signor 
Carcano     (the     director     of    music),    and     a 


A   REHEARSAL  S1 

dirty-looking  little  object,  who  turned  out  to  be 
the  prompter.  After  they  had  sat  some  time 
wondering  what  detained  the  rest,  a  little  fusty 
woman,  with  a  grey-coloured  white  petticoat 
dangling  three  inches  below  her  gown,  holding 
a  thin  shivering  dog  by  a  dirty  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, and  followed  by  a  tall  slip  of  a  man 
with  his  hair  all  down  his  back  and  decorated 
with  whiskers,  beard,  and  moustaches,  made 
her  appearance.  I  advanced  to  welcome  my 
Adalgisa,  but,  without  making  any  attempt  at 
a  return  of  my  salutation,  she  glanced  all  round 
the  room  and  merely  said,  "  Come  fa  caldo  qui ! 
Non  c  e  nessuno  ancora?  Andiamo  a  prendere 
un  caffe,"  and  taking  the  arm  of  the  hairy  man 
retreated  forthwith.  Then  came  Signor  Gallo, 
leader  of  the  band,  then  the  tenor,  who  could 
have  gained  the  prize  for  unwashedness  against 
them  all — and  after  half  an  hour  more  waiting, 
Adalgisa  and  the  hairy  one  returned,  and  after 
about  half  an  hour  more,  arrived  my  bass,  God 
bless  him,  he  came  clean  ! 

"We  then  went  to  work — Adalgisa  could 
think  of  nothing  but  her  dog,  who  kept  up  a 
continuous  plaintive  howl  all  the  time  we  sang, 
which  she  assured  me  was  because  it  liked  the 
band  accompaniment  better  than  the  piano,  as 
it  never  made  signs  of  disapprobation  when 
she  took  it  to  the  rehearsals  with  the  orchestra. 
She  also  informed  me  that  it  had  five  puppies, 


52  MRS.  SARTORIS 

all  of  which  it  had  nursed  itself,  as  if  Italian 
dogs  were  in  the  habit  of  hiring  out  wet- 
nurses.  .  .  .  " 

III 

Adelaide  Kemble  returned  from  abroad  in 
May,  1 84 1,  and  there  seems  to  have  been  a 
family  gathering  in  Clarges  Street.  The  news 
of  her  many  successes  had  preceded  her — Mr. 
Chorley  told  them,  as  an  instance,  how  on  one 
occasion  at  Milan  the  audience  had  broken  out 
cheering  enthusiastically,  without  waiting  until 
the  Royalties  had  given  the  usual  signal. 

"  Now  you  want  to  know  something  about 
Adelaide,"  Mrs.  Kemble  writes  to  her  friend, 
Miss  St.  Leger.  "  There  she  sits  in  the  next 
room  at  the  piano,  singing,  sample-singing,  and 
giving  a  taste  of  her  quality  to  Charles  Greville, 
She  is  singing  most  beautifully,  and  the 
passionate  words  of  love,  longing,  grief,  and 
joy  burst  through  that  utterance  of  musical 
sound,  and  light  up  her  countenance  with  a 
perfect  blaze  of  emotion  ;  as  for  me,  the  tears 
stream  over  my  face.  .  .  .  She  looks  very 
well  and  very  handsome,  and  has  acquired 
something  completely  foreign  in  her  tone  and 
accent.  She  complains  of  the  darkness  of  our 
skies  and  the  dulness  of  our  mode  of  life  here 
as  intolerable." 

Dulness  seems  an  epithet  very  little  suited 


MUSIC  53 

to  the  mode  of  life  in  Clarges  Street,  where 
Mrs.  Fanny  sits  writing.  "  Music,"  she  de- 
scribes, "from  morning  to  night,  the  door  open- 
ing again  and  again  to  visitors,  old  family 
friends,  new  acquaintances.  Tenors,  lords  and 
ladies,  actors,  illustrissimi  hctti  quanti"  she 
says.  "  Friday,  my  sister  sings  at  the  Palace, 
and  we  are  all  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  fashion- 
able hard  work  which  rather  delights  my  father, 
which  my  sister  lends  herself  to,  complaining  a 
little  of  the  trouble,  fatigue,  and  late  hours,  but 
thinking  it  for  the  interest  of  her  future  career, 
and  always  becoming  rapt  and  excited  beyond 
all  other  considerations  in  her  own  capital 
musical  performances." 

There  is  a  pretty  story  in  Fanny  Kemble's 
"  Records  "  of  her  little  girl  in  bed,  who  sat  up 
wide  awake  when  her  mother  came  into  the 
room  late  one  night,  and  asked  her  "  how  many 
angels  there  had  been  in  the  drawing-room 
below."     Her  aunt  Adelaide  had  been  singing. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  continue  quoting 
from  Mrs.  Kemble's  Memoirs,  so  charmingly 
do  they  give  the  atmosphere  and  the  colour  of 
these  bygone  times.  From  Clarges  Street  the 
whole  party — with  the  exception  of  Charles 
Kemble — go  for  a  tour  abroad.  Mrs.  Kemble's 
children  and  their  nurse  are  with  them,  Mary 
Anne  Thackeray,  a  lifelong  friend,  and  Mr. 
Chorley,  and  the  great  Liszt,  who  subsequently 

E 


54  MRS    SARTORIS 

joined  them  in  Germany.  "  At  Mayence,"  says 
the  critical  biographer,  tt  my  sister  sang  at  a 
concert,  and  this  was  the  first  time  I  really  have 
heard  her  sing  in  public.  She  sings  in  '  Norma' 
again  to-night  in  Mayence,  and  I  am  going — 
of  course  without  any  anxiety,  for  her  success 
is  already  established  here — and  with  great 
anticipations  of  pleasure ;  more  even— if  possible 
— from  her  acting  than  her  singing."  She 
adds,  "  I  have  always  had  the  highest  opinion 
of  her  dramatic  powers,  and  I  was,  as  I  believe 
you  know,  earnest  with  her  at  one  time  to  leave 
the  opera  stage  and  to  become  an  actress ;  I 
thought  it  a  better  and  higher  order  of  things 
than  this  mere  uttering  of  sound  and  perpetual 
representation  of  passion  and  emotion.,, 

Fanny  Kemble  also  describes  her  sister  at 
Frankfort  giving  scenes  from  "  Lucia"  and 
"Beatrice  di  Tenda."  "What  she  does  is  very 
perfect,"  she  says;  "she  occasionally  falls  short 
in  the  amount  of  power  that  I  expected.  Her 
movements  and  gestures  are  all  remarkably 
graceful  and  easy,  she  impresses  me  even  more 
as  an  artist  than  a  genius,  which  I  did  not 
expect.  Some  of  the  things  she  did — I  speak 
now  of  her  acting — were  as  fine  as  some  of 
Pasta' s  great  effects,  and  her  whole  performance 
reminded  me  forcibly  of  that  finest  artist." 
Mrs.  Sartoris's  own  admiration  for  Pasta,  under 
whom  she  had  studied  was  immense,  as  may 


LISZT  55 

be  gathered  from  her  account  of  that  great 
singer. 

Mrs.  Kemble  gives  that  amusing  story  of 
Liszt  which  her  sister  used  to  tell,  nay,  to  act 
for  some  of  us,  so  that  the  present  writer  has 
always  felt  as  if  she  had  been  present  when 
Mme.  de  Metternich,  the  grand  lady,  invited 
the  musician  to  her  house,  and  after  asking 
various,  somewhat  impertinent,  questions  about 
his  stay  in  Paris,  ended  them  with,  "  Enfin 
avez-vous  fait  de  bonnes  affaires  la-bas  ?  " 

And  Liszt's  reply:  "  Pardon,  madame,  J'ai 
fait  un  peu  de  musique,  je  laisse  les  affaires 
aux  banquiers  et  aux  diplomates."  The  story 
is  well  known,  but  it  never  will  be  told  again 
as  it  was  told  by  Mrs.  Sartoris,  with  all  the 
droll  impersonation  of  the  lady,  and  the  courteous 
malice  of  the  great  musician. 

So  the  delightful  company  travelled  on  : 
"  Our  whole  expedition  partook  more  of  the 
character  of  a  party  of  pleasure  than  a  business 
speculation  .  .  .  the  relations  were  those  of 
the  friendliest  and  merriest  tourists  and  com- 
pagnons  de  voyage.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
charm  of  our  delightful  travelling  through  that 
lovely  scenery,  and  sojourning  in  those  pleasant 
antique  towns  where  the  fine  concerts  of  our 
two  artists  enchanted  us  even  more  than  the 
enthusiastic  audiences  who  thronged  to  hear 
them." 


56  MRS.  SARTORIS 

It  must  be  confessed  there  are  very  agree- 
able moments  now  and  again  in  our  own  lives 
and  our  neighbours',  and  it  is  a  real  pleasure  to 
read  of  past  happiness  for  people  to  whom  one 
has  owed  so  much  of  one's  own. 

When  Adelaide  Kemble  came  out  in 
Norma  at  Covent  Garden  that  autumn,  she 
sang  the  opera  in  English.  The  fortunes  of 
the  theatre,  ''then  at  the  lowest  ebb,"  revived 
under  the  influence  of  her  popularity.  The 
place  was  quite  empty  the  nights  she  did  not 
sing,  and  overflowing  when  she  appeared. 

I  can  remember  her  describing  to  us  one  of 
these  performances,  and  her  enjoyment  of  the 
long  folds  of  drapery  as  she  flew  across  the 
stage  as  Norma,  and  how  she  added  with  a 
sudden  flash,  half  humour,  half  enthusiasm,  "  I 
have  everything  a  woman  could  wish  for,  my 
friends  and  my  home,  my  husband  and  my 
children,  and  yet  sometimes  a  wild  longing 
comes  over  me  to  be  back,  if  only  for  an  hour, 
on  the  stage  again,  and  living  once  more  as  I 
did  in  those  early  adventurous  times."  She 
was  standing  in  a  beautiful  room  in  Park  Place 
when  she  said  this.  There  were  high  carved 
cabinets,  and  worked  silken  tapestries  on  the 
walls,  and  a  great  golden  glass  over  her  head 
— she  herself  in  some  velvet  brocaded  dress 
stood  looking  not  unlike  a  picture  by  Tintoret. 

Mr.   and   Mrs.    Sartoris   were   married  at 


AT    ROME  57 

Glasgow ;  so  their  daughter,  Mrs.  Evans 
Gordon,  has  told  me :  it  seems  difficult  to 
believe  it !  Venice  and  its  gondoliers  and  the 
Lido  ;  Rome  and  the  yellow  Arno  ;  even  Paris 
with  its  golden  domes  and  its  sunset  lights 
would  have  seemed  a  more  appropriate  place. 
But  though  Adelaide  Sartoris  was  married  at 
Glasgow,  the  rest  of  her  life  was  spent  in 
beautiful  places,  often  among  Southern  scenes. 


IV 

The  writer's  first  definite  picture  of  her  old 
friend  remains  as  a  sort  of  frontispiece  to  many 
later  aspects  and  remembrances.  We  were 
standing  in  a  big  Roman  drawing-room  with  a 
great  window  to  the  west,  and  the  colours  of 
the  room  were  not  unlike  sunset  colours. 
There  was  a  long  piano  with  a  bowl  of  flowers 
on  it  in  the  centre  of  the  room  ;  there  were 
soft  carpets  to  tread  upon  ;  a  beautiful  little 
boy  in  a  white  dress,  with  yellow  locks  all 
a-shine  from  the  light  of  the  window,  was 
perched  upon  a  low  chair  looking  up  at  his 
mother,  who  with  her  arm  round  him  stood  by 
the  chair,  so  that  their  two  heads  were  on  a 
level.  She  was  dressed  (I  can  see  her  still)  in 
a  sort  of  grey  satin  robe,  and  her  beautiful 
proud  head  was  turned  towards  the  child.  She 
seemed   pleased   to  see    my  father  who    had 


58  MRS.  SARTORIS 

brought  us  to  be  introduced  to  her,  and  she 
made  us  welcome,  then,  and  all  the  winter,  to 
her  home.  In  that  distant  hour  (there  may  be 
others  as  vivid  now  for  a  new  generation) 
Rome  was  still  a  mediaeval  city — monks  in 
every  shade  of  black  and  grey  and  brown  were 
in  the  streets  outside  with  their  sandalled  feet 
flapping  on  the  pavement ;  cardinals  passed  in 
their  great  pantomime  coaches,  rolling  on  with 
accompaniment  of  shabby  cocked-hats  and 
liveries  to  clear  the  way ;  Americans  were  rare 
and  much  made  of ;  English  were  paramount ; 
at  night  oil-lamps  swung  in  the  darkness. 

Many  of  the  ruins  of  the  present  were  still 
in  their  graves  peacefully  hidden  away  for 
another  generation  to  unearth  ;  the  new  build- 
ings, the  streets,  the  gas-lamps,  the  tramways 
were  not.  The  Sartorises  had  mantel-places 
with  huge  logs  burning;  Mrs.  Browning  sat 
by  her  smouldering  wood  fire ;  but  we  in  our 
lodging  still  had  to  light  brazen  pans  of  charcoal 
to  warm  ourselves  if  we  shivered. 

At  my  request  an  old  friend,  who  for  our 
good  fortune  has  kept  a  diary,  opens  one  of 
his  pretty  vellum-bound  note-books,  and  evokes 
an  hour  of  those  old  Italian  times  from  the 
summer  following  that  Roman  winter.  He 
tells  of  a  peaceful  Sunday  at  Lucca,  a  place  of 
which  I  have  often  heard  Mrs.  Sartoris  speak 
with  pleasure  ;  Leighton  and  Hatty  Hosmer, 


AT  LUCCA  59 

the  sculptress,  and  Hamilton  Aide  the  writer 
of  the  diary  are  there  ;  they  are  all  sitting 
peacefully  together  on  some  high  terrace  with 
a  distant  view  of  the  spreading  plains,  while 
Mrs.  Sartoris  reads  to  them  out  of  one  of  her 
favourite  Dr.  Channings  sermons.  Another 
page  tells  of  a  party  at  Ostia.  M  Very  pleasant 
we  made  ourselves  in  a  pine  wood,"  says  the 
diarist.  "  I  walked  by  A.  S/s  chaise  d  porteur 
up  the  hills  later  in  the  evening.  She  talked 
of  her  past  life  and  all  its  trials,  and  of  her 
early  youth.  She  said  to  me,  '  I  have  suffered 
so  much  from  unkindness  and  neglect,  that  it 
makes  me  lenient  to  any  one  who  is  kind.  .  .  .' ' 
But  this  complaint  must  be  taken  with  a 
reservation — it  is  almost  a  platitude  to  say  so 
—but  those  who  are  a  little  more  highly  strung 
than  their  neighbours  suffer  accordingly,  and 
more  than  accordingly.  It  is  they  themselves 
who  respond  to  their  own  responsiveness.  A 
word  wrongly  said,  a  sympathy  slowly  given, 
sets  them  a-quivering  :  this  is  the  price  of  it 
all.  Some  one  or  other  of  us  is  perhaps  set  to 
a  time  that  beats  a  little  quicker  or  slower  than 
the  rest,  and  then  the  notes  jar ;  not  because 
they  are  not  in  true  accordance,  but  because 
they  go  at  a  different  measure.  Life  is  a 
concert  in  which  crotchets  and  the  quavers, 
alas  !  do  not  always  wait  upon  one  another. 
Then  comes  an  hour,  as  my  father  has  said, 


60  MRS.  SARTORIS 

when  one  recalls  long  past  things,  the  old 
affections  start  into  life  once  more  and  seem  to 
smite  one. 

Wherever  and  whenever  I  think  of  Mrs. 
Sartoris  it  is  always  in  memorable  surround- 
ings, whether  at  Paris  near  the  Seine,  or  in 
Rome,  or  in  the  fine  old  house  in  Park  Place, 
or  at  Warnford,  or  at  Warsash  in  Hampshire, 
by  the  sweet  Hamble  shore,  where  the  great 
sorrow  of  their  son's  death  fell  upon  her  and 
her  husband,  where  she  herself  died  but  a  very 
few  years  after. 

She  had  made  the  place  and  she  loved  it ; 
so  we  all  did,  for  to  the  charm  of  surrounding 
circumstances  must  be  added  the  pleasure  of 
such  company  as  hers.  It  was  not  only  the 
welcome  and  the  atmosphere  of  her  home  that 
she  gave  us,  but  the  romance  of  it  all,  and  the 
interests  of  every  kind.  The  very  people  she 
had  known  seemed  to  be  there  too ;  the  things 
which  had  struck  her — to  be  happening  again, 
with  the  accompaniment  of  her  brilliant  com- 
ment, her  vivacious  and  most  memorable  talk. 
That  gift  of  directness  and  incisiveness  which 
came  perhaps  from  their  foreign  blood  belonged 
to  both  the  sisters. 

V 

I  can  remember  Mrs.  Sartoris  once  laugh- 
ing and  saying  that  one  of  the  noblest  acts  she 


PROTEGES  61 

ever  did  in  her  life  was  when  a  poor  music- 
master  had  come  to  see  her,  on  his  way  to  call 
upon  some  influential  patrons.  His  shirt- 
buttons  had  given  way,  with  some  untidy 
consequences  which  filled  her  with  alarm  as  to 
what  impression  he  might  make  upon  his 
patrons.  There  were  other  people  in  the  room. 
As  the  poor,  shy  man  came  up  to  take  leave, 
she  held  his  hand  and  said,  in  a  low  voice  and 
not  without  an  effort :  "  Good-bye,  but  before 
you  leave  this  house  go  into  the  study  down 
below  and  carefully  examine  yourself  in  the 
round  mirror  upon  the  wall." 

Her  heart  specially  warmed  to  poor 
musicians.  There  was  a  girl  who  was  study- 
ing at  Paris,  a  charming,  pretty  creature,  whose 
cause  she  took  up  warmly.  She  invited  us  to 
the  play  together ;  she  used  to  drive  us  both 
out ;  she  used  to  ask  the  young  singer  to  her 
house,  but  some  cruel  fate  threw  the  poor, 
charming  girl  into  the  clutches  of  a  villainous 
music-master  who  ruined  all  her  life,  and  the 
poor  child  vanished. 

There  was  another  grim  story  I  remember 
of  a  beautiful  stranger  Mrs.  Sartoris  once  met 
on  board  a  steamer  on  some  one  of  the  Italian 
lakes,  and  with  whom  she  made  a  pleasant 
summer  day's  acquaintance.  For  two  days,  I 
think,  they  travelled  on  together.  Mrs.  Sartoris 
was  delighted  with  her  companion,  interested 


62  MRS.  SARTORIS 

by  her  cleverness,  her  beauty,  her  feeling  for 
art,  and  by  a  certain  pathetic  strain  which 
vibrated  through  all  her  gay  and  brilliant 
spirits.  And  this  is  what  happened  quite  soon 
after,  when  the  Sartorises  came  back  from  Paris. 
They  took  up  a  newspaper  one  morning,  and 
there  read  the  account  of  a  suicide.  A  fashion- 
able lady,  living  in  the  Quartier  St.  Honore, 
had  invited  all  her  friends  to  an  evening  party, 
and  when  the  first  guests  were  announced,  was 
discovered  in  full  dress,  with  diamonds  in  her 
hair  hanging  to  the  brilliantly  lighted  chandelier 
in  the  centre  of  the  drawing-room,  and  her 
name  was  that  of  the  mysterious  lady  of  the 
lake. 

Trait  after  trait  comes  to  one  s  mind,  saying 
after  saying.  For  instance,  "  how  the  time  had 
come  when  it  gave  her  infinite  pleasure  even 
to  meet  people  whom  her  father  and  mother 
particularly  disliked,  so  few  were  there  left  who 
had  known  them  at  all." 

Mrs.  Gordon  has  told  me  that  she  can 
remember  a  meeting  between  her  mother  and 
George  Sand  in  the  Campagna  of  Rome,  when 
the  great  Frenchwoman  came  hurrying  from 
her  villa,  holding  out  both  her  hands  in  welcome, 
with  cordial  warmth  and  excitement.  She  wore 
a  little  cap  tied  under  her  chin,  not  unlike  that 
Siddons-like  coiffe  Mrs.  Sartoris  herself  used 
to  wear  in  later  days,  and  which  became  her 


IN    PARIS  63 

so  well.  Her  beautiful  head  was  like  that  of 
some  classical  statue  nobly  set  upon  her 
shoulders.  But  no  classical  statue  ever  looked 
at  you  as  she  did  ;  her  eyes  and  mouth  spoke 
before  she  uttered.  She  always  seemed  to  me 
an  improvisatrice.  Both  she  and  her  sister  had 
the  rare  power  of  stirring  and  stimulating  one's 
sleepy  makeshift  soul,  suggesting,  satisfying. 
It  was  as  if  Mrs.  Sartoris  could  at  will  compel 
the  sound  and  the  sense  and  the  colour  into 
that  in  which  she  was  interested,  she  created 
as  she  spoke  instead  of  only  speaking,  so  that 
we  were  all  for  the  time,  and  indeed  for  a  life- 
time since,  illumined  by  her. 

Mrs.  Sartoris  was  once  living  in  Paris  in 
the  Rue  Royale,  in  a  very  stately  apartment. 
It  seemed  to  suit  her,  like  all  handsome  and 
beautiful  things.  I  do  not  suppose  the  modern 
aesthetic  taste  would  have  suited  her.  She 
liked  glorious  things  full  of  colour,  Italian, 
sumptuous,  and  she  liked  them  used  for  daily 
life  and  pleasure.  She  made  a  home  out  of  her 
lovely  bric-a-brac  and  tapestries  and  cabinets. 
Something  of  course  must  be  allowed  for  the 
grateful  excitement  of  inexperience,  but  to  us 
in  those  days,  her  houses  seemed  like  succeed- 
ing paradises  upon  earth.  I  can  remember  on 
one  occasion  gazing  in  admiration  at  a  glowing 
shaded  lamp,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen,  reflected 
from  one  glass  to  another,  and  listening  to  my 


64  MRS.  SARTORIS 

hostess  as  she  sang  Oberon's  "  Mermaid  Song," 
from  the  far  end  of  the  room.  Then  came 
dinner  in  an  octagon  dining-room  at  a  round 
table  with  pink  wax  candles  and  ices,  and  then 
a  quick  drive  to  the  theatre  where  our  stalls 
were  kept  for  us.  I  remember  neither  the 
name  of  the  theatre  nor  of  the  play,  only  the 
look  of  the  bright  lighted  stage,  and  the  pretty 
white  house  full  of  spectators.  Mrs.  Sartoris 
was  using  a  pair  of  turquoise  eye-glasses, 
through  which  she  looked  about,  and  presently 
she  whispered  to  me,  "  There,  to  your  left  in 
the  box  on  the  first  tier."  I  looked  expecting 
I  know  not  what,  and  my  first  impression  was 
disappointment.  I  saw  some  figures  in  the 
box,  two  men  standing  at  the  back,  and  a  lady 
in  a  front  seat  sitting  alone.  She  was  a  stout 
middle-aged  woman,  dressed  in  a  stiff  watered- 
silk  dress,  with  a  huge  cameo,  such  as  people 
then  wore,  at  her  throat.  Her  black  shiny 
hair  shone  like  polished  ebony,  she  had  a  heavy 
red  face,  marked  brows,  great  dark  eyes  ;  there 
was  something — how  shall  I  say  it  ? — rather 
fierce,  defiant,  and  set,  in  her  appearance, 
powerful,  sulky;  she  frightened  one  a  little. 
"That  is  George  Sand,"  said  Mrs.  Sartoris, 
bending  her  head  and  makings  friendly  sign 
to  the  lady  with  her  eye-glasses.  The  figure 
also  bent  its  head,  but  I  don't  remember  any 
smile  or  change  of  that  fixed  expression.     The 


GEORGE   SAND  65 

contrast  struck  me  the  more,  for  my  hostess, 
as  I  have  said,  scarcely  needed  to  speak  to 
make  herself  understood ;  her  whole  counte- 
nance spoke  for  her  even  if  she  was  silent. 
George  Sand  looked  half-bored,  half-far-away  ; 
she  neither  lighted  up  nor  awoke  into  greeting.* 

Mrs.  Kemble  once  said  she  had  heard 
George  Sand  described  half  in  fun  as  "un- 
amiable,  very  emphatic,  very  dictatorial,  very 
like  herself,  in  short  "  ;  but  perhaps  the  descrip- 
tion was  as  superficial  in  one  case  as  it  assuredly 
would  have  been  in  the  other. 

In  odd  juxtaposition  in  the  present  writer's 
mind  comes  the  remembrance  of  a  visit  paid 
many  years  later  by  Mrs.  Sartoris  to  George 
Eliot  at  North  Bank  in  Regent's  Park.  It 
was  an  interview  rather  than  a  meeting.  George 
Eliot,  shy,  serious,  deliberate ;  Mrs.  Sartoris 
also  a  little  shy,  but  talking  rapidly  and 
brilliantly,  the  acolyte  present  overwhelmed  by 
the  importance  of  the  situation,  and  therefore 
greatly  in  the  way.  How  useful  it  would 
sometimes  be  to  be  able  to  vanish  at  will  like 
Prince  Fortunio  ! 

*  I  like  better  to  think  of  George  Sand  as  I  never  saw  her, 
with  grey  hairs  and  a  softened  life,  outcoming  and  helpful  and 
living  in  her  later  years  among  her  plants,  and  her  grandchildren, 
and  her  poor  people ;  to  imagine  her  as  I  have  heard  her 
described  in  her  age,  beneficent,  occupied,  tending  and  pre- 
scribing, distributing  the  simples  out  of  her  garden,  healing  the 
sick,  softened  by  time,  giving  to  others  day  by  day  what  she 
still  earned  by  her  nights  of  persistent  work. 


66  MRS.  SARTORIS 

But  how  grateful  one  is  to  be  there  at  other 
times ! 

Adelaide  Sartoris  was  a  fine  critic,  and 
loved  to  exercise  her  gift.  She  used  to  make 
me  read  some  of  my  early  stories  to  her,  and 
it  is  to  her  I  owe  a  useful  hint  which  I  have 
tried  to  pass  on  to  many  young  authors. 
"  Read  your  MSS.  aloud  to  yourself;  "  she  said, 
"  many  things  will  then  strike  you,  which  other- 
wise you  might  pass  over." 

She  loved  her  following  of  young  people, 
and  was  good  and  helpful  to  them  all  in  turn. 
"  Even  her  intolerance  of  stupidity  was  ex- 
pressed in  witty  but  kindly  words,"  says  a 
young  companion  of  those  days,  now  indeed 
speaking  ex  cathedra.  "  One  thing  that  always 
rings  in  my  ears  is  her  recitation  of  Shelley's 
1  Good  Night '  to  a  low  obligato  accompaniment 
on  the  piano ;  "  adds  this  lady,  whose  own 
music  Mrs.  Sartoris  so  much  enjoyed. 

Into  common  life  and  its  observances,  its 
engagements  and  decorums,  Mrs.  Sartoris 
carried  her  sense  of  quick  emotion.  A  girl 
who  had  put  off  her  coming  at  the  entreaty  of 
another  hostess  describes  her  confusion  and 
remorse  when  she  arrived  at  Warsash,  and  was 
received  with  a  certain  state  and  grave  ceremony, 
Mrs.  Sartoris  sitting  in  full  dress  in  the  centre 
of  her  big  drawing-room,  not  rising  to  receive 
her.      "You   should   not   have   done   it,"   she 


THEATRICALS  67 

said,  and  then  presently  she  melted  and  kissed 
her. 

A  very  memorable  meeting  should  not  be 
unmentioned  here.  Was  it  yesterday  only  or 
years  ago  ?  Was  it  in  a  wood  near  Athens,  or 
in  the  forest  of  Arden  itself,  or  in  glades  nearer 
home  that  we  all  assembled  once  to  make 
merry  and  hold  our  woodland  revels  ?  We  had 
stages  and  rural  bowers  to  perform  in  ;  Theseus 
and  Hippolyta  and  all  the  neighbouring  sylphs 
and  fauns  came  up  to  see  the  sport ;  our  host 
received  I  hardly  know  how  many  of  us  into 
his  home ;  the  neighbouring  houses  overflowed 
with  guests.  Mrs.  Sartoris  played  comedy ; 
Mr.  Sartoris,  who  had  an  extraordinary  and 
admirable  gift  of  acting,  took  the  leading  parts. 
Mr.  Aide,  our  host,  played  the  Delaunay  jeune 
premier.  Surely  Mr.  Yates  was  there  with 
his  two-and-thirty  speeches.  The  sun  shone, 
there  was  a  brilliant  dazzle  of  sweet  green 
freshened  by  rain,  the  song  of  birds  rang  through 
the  woods,  people  kept  arriving,  driving  up, 
talking,  excited,  agitated  ;  the  properties  went 
wrong,  parts  went  astray,  a  whole  Michaelmas 
goose,  very  essential  to  the  farce,  was  missing, 
but  nevertheless  the  plays  went  right  and  more 
than  right.  I  think  Lord  Leighton,  who  had 
just  finished  his  beautiful  fresco  in  the  Lyndhurst 
church,  was  stage  manager.  A  hostess  with 
beautiful  white  hair  received  us  in  the  fragrant 


68  MRS.  SARTORIS 

house  among  the  woods  ;  charming  nymph-like 
figures  came  to  the  prompter's  call,  flitting 
under  the  trees.  Not  the  least  charming  among 
them  was  "  Christian  Rupert,"  as  Mrs.  Sartoris 
has  called  her, singing  "Vado  ben  Spesso,"  in  her 
full  ringing  voice  like  the  evening  grace,  when 
the  rehearsals  were  over.  The  girls  from  under 
the  trees  looked  like  ladies  out  of  Sir  Joshua's 
pictures,  passing  through  the  flicker  of  shadow 
and  sunshine.  Their  daughters  are  like  them 
now,  but  not  quite  what  their  mothers  were, 
and  who  is  there  to  take  the  place  of  that  noble 
improvisatrice,  that  bountiful  spirit  ruling  the 
little  company  by  right  of  birth  and  presence, 
unconsciously  imposing  itself  upon  others  and 
carrying  them  along  ? 

The  daughter,  who  read  me  the  pages  out 
of  her  mother's  diary,  also  gave  me  one  or  two 
letters  from  an  old  cabinet — a  cabinet  where 
Mrs.  Sartoris  herself  had  put  them  away.  It 
stands  among  the  family  treasures,  drawings 
and  sketches  by  Leighton,  by  Mr.  Sartoris  and 
Val  Prinsep,  among  many  mementoes  interest- 
ing in  themselves  and  because  of  the  interesting 
people  they  record.  One  book  is  a  fine  old 
black  German  Bible,  on  the  first  page  of  which 
is  inscribed,  "  F.  Liszt  to  Adelaide  Kemble." 
Another  volume  touched  me  more  nearly  :  it 
was  a  green  morocco  book  beautifully  bound, 
the  name  written  in  it  by  the  giver,  Edward 


FRIENDSHIPS  69 

FitzGerald,  and  it  contained  Tennyson's 
"  Morte  d'Arthur  "  copied  out  in  familiar  hand- 
writing. Mrs.  Kemble  has  told  me  how,  as 
a  young  man,  Mr.  FitzGerald  deeply  loved 
and  admired  her  sister,  who  had  that  special 
gift  for  making  lifelong  friends  :  Mr.  Henry 
Greville  and  Lord  Leighton  are  the  first  names 
among  Adelaide  Sartoris's  that  come  to  one's 
mind.  How  many  more  are  there  that  one 
might  remember  ?  Browning,  my  own  father, 
Lord  Lyons,  Aide,  Mr.  Brookfield — they  crowd 
on  one's  memory. 

Mrs.  Gordon  let  me  copy  a  note  or  two 
from  her  many  records  stored  away  in  order 
and  affection.  Here  is  a  letter  from  Dessauer 
to  Miss  Adelaide  Kemble,  out  of  the  cabinet. 

"  Ta  lettre  m'a  fait  le  plus  grand  plaisir,  elle 
est  bonne,  spirituelle  et  a  de  Tembonpoint,  bref, 
c'est  ton  portrait.  Tu  me  demandes  la  pareille* 
Ma  chere,  c'est  impossible !  la  mienne  serait  et 
sera  toujours  maigre,  bete,  et  mechante,  et  par- 
dessus  ecrite  par  la  main  d'un  homme  nerveux  ; 
c'est-a-dire,  pas  lisible."  He  goes  on  to  give 
a  sensible  disquisition  upon  genius,  upon  right 
and  wrong,  and  the  laws  of  justice  in  general : 
"  II  est  vrai  que  le  genie  est  une  qualite  d'esprit 
qui  disorganise  facilement  nos  qualit^s  morales, 
mais  je  ne  suis  pas  encore  a  la  hauteur  de 
croire  que  le  genie  a  le  privilege  de  commettre 
des  choses   que   Ton   ne  permettrait    pas   un 

F 


70  MRS.  SARTORIS 

simple  mortel.  La  lutte,  la  lutte,  voila,  ma 
chere,  ce  que  je  trouve  admirable,  et  je  crois 
que  le  D ne  s'occupera  pas  beaucoup  a  9a/' 

Here  are  a  couple  of  Mr.  Brookfield's  notes 
which  I  could  not  but  ask  leave  to  quote — 

"Will  you  kindly  mention  in  the  proper 
quarter  that  I  think  I  have  left  two  pairs  of  shoes 
in  my  bedroom— -being  Lent  my  going  about 
barefoot  at  present  attracts  no  observation,  but 
the  shoes  would  be  convenient  at  Easter.  .  .  ." 

Again,  Mr.  Brookfield  writes  on  some 
subsequent  occasion,  inquiring  whether  a  gold 
locket  chased  with  emeralds  and  the  legend 
"gone  is  gone"  and  "dead  is  dead"  had  been 
found  on  his  dressing-table,  "  not  that  I  ever 
lost  such  a  thing,"  he  continues,  "  or  ever 
possessed  such  a  thing  to  lose,  but  you  will 
remember  what  I  said  about  the  old-fashioned- 
ness  of  writing  to  announce  safe  arrival  after  a 
visit — and  this  locket  seems  to  me  a  competent 
pretext  on  which  to  hang  the  expression  of 
gratitude  for  an  unusually  agreeable  visit  .  .  . 
the  pleasure  of  which  by  no  means  ceases  with 
its  cessation,  but  abides  perennially,  as  all  things 
worth  remembering  do." 

There  is  a  passage  in  one  of  Mrs.  Sartoris's 
essays  which  seems  to  me  to  give  the  keynote 
of  her  deep  convictions  and  which  I  will  also 
quote.     "  Now,  to  love  anything  sincerely  is  an 


THE   TRUE   ARTIST  71 

act  of  grace,  but  to  love  the  best  sincerely  is  a 
state  of  grace." 

It  is  not  for  old  friends  who  remember 
that  recollections  are  written,  but  rather  to  try 
to  tell  people  who  cannot  remember  of  some 
of  those  who  have  gone  before  them,  treading 
with  memorable  steps  towards  the  infinite 
silence. 

When  speaking  lately  to  one  and  to  another 
of  those  who  had  known  Adelaide  Sartoris, 
it  was  like  listening  to  a  chord  to  hear  the  voices 
recalling  the  well-known  name,  each  striking 
its  special  note  of  remembrance.  A  wise  and 
discerning  Chatelaine,  who  from  her  youth  had 
known  Mrs.  Sartoris  and  Mrs.  Kemble,  dwelt 
with  interest  on  the  different  gifts  by  which 
the  two  sisters  could  best  express  what  was  in 
them.  Mrs.  Kemble,  so  essentially  poetic  and 
dramatic  in  her  nature  ;  Mrs.  Sartoris,  so  much 
of  an  artist,  musical,  with  a  love  for  exquisite 
things,  and  all  that  belongs  to  form  and  colour. 
(Some  of  us  can  remember  hearing  Lord 
Leighton  say  that  though  Mrs.  Sartoris  did 
not  paint,  she  was  a  true  painter  in  her  sense 
of  beauty  of  composition,  in  her  great  feeling 
for  art.)  Another  old  friend,  with  some  show 
of  reason,  deprecated  any  attempt  to  record  at 
all  that  which  was  unrecordable.  "  Would 
you  give  a  dried  rose-leaf  as  a  sample  of  a 
garden  of  roses  to  one  who  had  never  seen  a 


72  MRS.  SARTORIS 

rose  ? "  she  exclaimed,  recalling,  not  without 
emotion,  the  golden  hours  she  had  spent,  the 
talks  she  had  once  enjoyed  in  the  Warsash 
Pergola.  "It  would  be  an  injustice  to  that 
dear  and  noble  memory  for  me  to  attempt  to 
rake  up  stale  recollections  of  such  happy 
hours.  .  .  ." 

Perhaps  it  might  indeed  be  wiser  to  acquiesce 
at  once  in  the  law  that  eventually  carries  all 
into  oblivion,  and  yet  it  is  almost  impossible, 
while  memory  and  imagination  remain  to  us, 
to  leave  fragments  of  beauty,  like  broken 
temples  lying  neglected  in  a  desert,  unheeded 
and  unrecorded. 

I  think  also  we  sometimes  see  others  more 
clearly,  with  more  justice,  in  remembrance, 
than  we  did  at  the  moment  of  actual  meeting, 
of  past  exaggeration,  and  past  excitement. 

"  You  have  only  to  speak  of  things  as  they 
are,"  said  a  great  critic  who  had  known  Mrs. 
Sartoris  in  her  later  years.  "  Use  no  con- 
ventional epithets :  those  sisters  are  beyond 
any  banalities  of  praise." 

One  voice  speaking  of  Mrs.  Sartoris,  be- 
longed to  a  lady  sitting  in  her  special  corner  of 
the  old  brown  palace  which  was  till  lately  her 
home.  "That  fine  and  original  being,"  she 
said,  "  so  independent  and  full  of  tolerance 
for  the  young;  sympathising  even  with  misplaced 
enthusiasm,  entering  so    vividly  into  a   girl's 


LADY    PONSONBY  73 

unformed  longings.  .  .  .  When  I  first  knew 
her,"  so  this  lady  continued,  "  she  seemed  to 
me  to  be  a  sort  of  revelation  ;  it  was  some  one 
taking  life  from  an  altogether  new  and  different 
point  of  view  from  anything  I  had  ever  known 
before." 

Lady  Ponsonby,  the  young  maid  of  honour 
of  bygone  days,  had  made  friends  with  Mrs. 
Sartoris  over  a  sudden  burst  of  laughter.  They 
used  to  go  about  together  rather  shyly,  not 
quite  familiarly  at  first,  but  on  one  occasion  the 
younger  lady  burst  out  laughing  and  the  elder 
lady  caught  the  infection.  "  Can  you  indeed 
laugh  like  that  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Sartoris,  laughing 
on  herself,  and  the  friendship  was  made.  They 
met  constantly,  they  used  to  talk  and  to 
speculate  on  the  many  things  in  which  they 
were  both  interested.  Once  they  went  together 
to  see  some  performance  in  which  a  youthful 
actor,  lately  come  out,  played  in  "  Hunted 
Down,"  a  melodrama,  and  in  the  "  Road  to 
Ruin,"  so  admirably,  that  Mrs.  Sartoris  ex- 
claimed :  "  This  is  the  coming  man  !  "  On 
her  return  home  that  night,  she  wrote  him  a 
letter  of  congratulation,  and  asked  him  to  come 
and  see  her.     His  name  was  Henry  Irving. 

Other  voices  I  have  heard  speaking. 
" faimais  Adelaide"  said  Madame  Viardot, 
uttering  that  best  of  all  epitaphs.  A  woman — 
a    well-known   musician — going   back    to    the 


74  MRS.  SARTORIS 

times  when  Adelaide  Kemble  first  came  out 
upon  the  stage,  dwelt  much  upon  the  beauty  of 
the  young  debutante's  singing  and  impersona- 
tions, the  full  sweet  tones  of  her  utterance,  and 
still  more  upon  her  very  great  and  remarkable 
knowledge  of  music.  Lady  Thompson  was 
Kate  Loder  in  earlier  years,  and  her  praise  has 
a  meaning  to  it.*  One  more  later  friend  to 
whom  I  applied  rather  surprised  me  by  chiefly 
describing  Mrs.  Sartoris  from  the  serious 
country  lady  point  of  view ;  visiting  the 
cottages,  teaching  the  children,  singing  to  the 
villagers  in  the  old  Hampshire  village.  And 
yet  I  have  an  old  letter  dated  from  Warnford 
Court  which  somewhat  bears  out  this  descrip- 
tion. The  letter  itself  is  so  like  her  own  voice 
speaking  naturally,  that  I  quote  it  here. 

"  Have  whoever  you  like  on  Monday,"  she 
writes,  "  take  me  anywhere  you  like  on 
Tuesday.  I  am  very  well,  for  me,  and  shall 
not  be  tired  by  anything  at  home ;  it  was  only 
the  early  rush  out  to  the  Popular  on  Monday 
that  appeared  like  a  sort  of  impossibility,  and  I 
also  seem  so  happy  chatting  by  your  fireside — 
only  don't  think  I  shall  want  amusement.  .  .  . 
I  am  sure  to  see  the  few  people  I  want  most 

*  In  Cox's  musical  recollections  of  the  last  half-century,  we 
read  of  Adelaide  Kemble :  "  She  trod  the  stage  like  a  majestic 
queen  ;  her  singing  was  marked  by  the  entire  absence  of 
meretricious  ornament  and  by  the  quiet  decision  of  its  rhythm." 


LITTLE   SCHOOL-CHILDREN     75 

to  see  at  some  time  or  another  during  my 
visit.  I  shall  see  Jeanie  Senior  and  Leighton, 
and  Mrs.  Brookfield  and  de  Mussy  ;  and  my 
dear  old  Henry  Greville  will  be  sure  to  look 
me  up  if  he  is  in  town. 

11 1  am  in  an  agitation  about  the  examination 
of  our  school-children,  which  comes  off  at 
eleven  to-morrow  morning,  and  they  are  always 
so  nervous,  poor  little  things,  that  they  do 
their  very  worst  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  the 
mistress  works  herself  into  a  fever,  and  so  do 
I !  and  I  shall  be  thankful  when  it  is  Saturday. 
I  had  my  class  up  here  yesterday  afternoon  for 
a  couple  of  hours,  and  they  are  coming  again 
to-day  to  read  poetry.  I  have  given  them 
simple  little  things  to  read  which  they  can 
understand.  I  found  the  poems  in  the  regular 
schoolbooks  quite  too  difficult  for  me  to  explain, 
full  of  '  terrestrials '  and  '  ethereal  firmament,' 
and  words  and  things  I  myself  don't  clearly 
understand.  If  the  inspector  insists  on  their 
reading  to  him  out  of  the  regulation  lesson- 
book  we  shall  be  done  for,  and  disgrace  our- 
selves. Our  inspector  is  William  Warburton, 
a  brother  of  poor  Eliot's  ;  he  is  gentle  with  the 
little  ones,  which  is  everything.  ..." 

The  notes  I  have  been  able  to  set  down 
are  very  slight,  but  such  as  they  are,  they 
indicate  something  of  that  vivid  life,  full  of 
beauty,  of  impression,  both  reasonable,  of  fine 


76  MRS.  SARTORIS 

criticism,  of  feeling  ;  of  that  home  of  which  the 
master  and  mistress  were  essentially  hosts  of 
mark  ;  ruling  spirits  not  indeed  to  be  forgotten 
by  the  many  who  have  turned  to  them,  and  to 
the  warming  lights  of  their  kindling  hearth. 


MRS.    KEMBLE 

1809-1893 

My  father  was  a  very  young  man  when  he  first 
knew  the  Kemble  family.  In  1832  he  himself 
was  twenty-one,  a  couple  of  years  younger  than 
Mrs.  Fanny  Kemble,  who  was  born  in  1809. 
The  mentions  of  the  Kembles  in  a  diary  which 
he  kept  about  that  time  are  very  constant. 
"Called  at  Kemble's."  "  Walked  with  Kemble 
in  the  Park.  (Kemble  was  John  Mitchell 
Kemble,  Mrs.  Fanny  Kemble's  brother.)  We 
met  the  Duke,  looking  like  an  old  hero." 
"  Breakfasted  with  Kemble ;  went  to  see  the 
rehearsal  of  the  Easter  piece  at  Covent  Garden, 
with  Farley  in  his  glory."  Again  :  "  Called  at 
Kemble's.  He  read  me  some  very  beautiful 
verses  by  Tennyson."  On  another  occasion 
my  father  speaks  of  seeing  "  Miss  Tot,  a  very 
nice  girl.  Madam  not  visible"  ;  and  again  of 
"  Miss  Fanny  still  in  Paris.  ..." 

It  was  in  the  year  1851,  or  thereabouts, 
that  my  own  scraps  of  recollections  begin  and 
that  I  remember  walking  with  my  father  along 


78  MRS.   KEMBLE 

the  High  Street  at  Southampton;  and  some-* 
where  near  the  archway  he  turned  (taking  us 
with  him)  into  the  old  i\ssembly  Rooms,  where 
I  heard  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  my  life  a 
Shakesperian  Reading  by  Mrs.  Fanny  Kemble. 
I  think  it  was  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  her. 
She  came  in  with  a  stiff  and  stately  genuflexion 
to  the  audience,  took  her  seat  at  the  little  table 
prepared  for  her  upon  which  she  laid  her  open 
book,  and  immediately  began  to  read.  My 
sister  and  I  sat  on  either  side  of  our  father. 
He  followed  every  word  with  attention ;  I 
cannot  even  make  sure  of  the  play  after  all 
these  years,  but  Falstaff  was  in  it,  and  with  a 
rout  and  a  shout  a  jolly  company  burst  in. 

Suddenly  the  lady's  voice  rose,  with  some 
generous  cheery  chord  of  glorious  fun  and 
jollity.  I  can  hear  the  echo  still  and  see  her 
action  as  she  pointed  outwards  with  both  open 
hands,  and  my  father  with  a  start,  bursting  into 
sympathising  laughter  and  plaudit  and  crying 
"  Bravo  !  Bravo  !  "  and  then  again  he  sat  back 
listening  and  looking  approvingly  through  his 
spectacles.  As  we  came  away  he  once  more 
broke  into  praise.  "  Don't  you  see  how  admir- 
ably she  forgets  herself  ?  "  he  said  ;  "  how  she 
flings  herself  into  it  all  ?  how  finely  she  feels 
it  ?  "  My  father  was  that  best  of  audiences,  a 
born  critic  and  yet  an  enthusiast ;  and  to  the 
last  he  could  throw  himself  into   the  passing 


FIRST   MEETING  79 

mood,  into  the  spirit  of  the  moment,  while  at 
the  same  time  he  knew  what  he  was  admiring, 
and  why  he  admired. 

Some  years  passed  before  we  met  Mrs. 
Kemble  again,  in  Rome.  It  was  at  a  very 
hard  and  difficult  hour  of  her  life,  so  I  have 
heard  her  say,  a  time  when  she  needed  all  her 
courage  to  endure  her  daily  portion  of  suffering. 
I  was  then  a  hobbledehoy,  and  (though  she 
was  no  less  kind  to  me  than  in  later  years)  I 
only  stared  and  wondered  at  her  ways,  asking 
myself  what  she  meant,  and  how  much  she 
meant  by  the  things  she  said,  for  I  only  half 
understood  her;  when  I,  too,  was  an  older 
woman  the  scales  fell  from  my  eyes. 

One  had  to  learn  something  oneself  before 
one  could  in  the  least  appreciate  her.  When 
the  gods  touch  one's  hair  with  gray,  then  comes 
some  compensating  revelation  of  what  has  been 
and  is  still.  Now  I  can  understand  the  pas- 
sionate way  in  which  Mrs.  Kemble  used  in 
early  times  to  speak  of  slavery  ;  then  I  used  to 
wonder  only  nor  realise  in  the  least  what  she 
felt,  often  she  would  start  to  her  feet  in  agita- 
tion and  passionate  declamation  ;  she  who  with 
streaming  eyes  and  wrung  heart  had  walked 
about  the  plantations  feeling  more,  perhaps, 
than  any  slave  could  do  what  it  was  to  be  a 
slave.  To  her  free  and  ruling  nature  every 
hour  of  bondage  must  have  seemed  nothing 


80  MRS.  KEMBLE 

short  of  torture.  In  those  far-back  Roman 
days  of  which  I  have  been  writing,  she  used  to 
take  us  out  driving  with  her  from  time  to  time. 
"  Where  shall  I  drive  to  ?  "  asks  the  coachman. 
11 Andate  al  Diavolo"  says  Mrs.  Kemble  gaily. 
"  Go  where  you  will,  only  go  !  "  And  away  we 
drive  through  streets  and  out  by  garden  walls 
and  garden  gates  to  the  Campagna,  and  as  we 
drive  along  she  begins  to  sing  to  us.  I  could 
box  my  own  past  ears  for  wondering  what  the 
passer-by  would  think  of  it,  instead  of  enjoying 
that  bygone  song. 

I  can  also  remember  Mrs.  Kemble  sitting 
dressed  in  a  black  dress  silently  working  all 
through  the  evening  by  her  sister's  fireside, 
and  gravely  stitching  on  and  on,  while  all  the 
brilliant  company  came  and  went,  and  the 
music  came  and  went.  In  those  days  Mrs. 
Kemble  had  certain  dresses  which  she  wore  in 
rotation  whatever  the  occasion  might  be.  If 
the  black  gown  chanced  to  fall  upon  a  gala  day 
she  wore  it,  if  the  pale  silk  gown  fell  upon  a 
working  day  she  wore  it ;  and  I  can  still  hear 
an  American  girl  exclaiming  with  dismay  as 
the  delicate  folds  of  a  white  silk  embroidered 
with  flowers  went  sweeping  over  the  anemones 
in  the  Pamphili  Gardens.  Another  vivid  im- 
pression I  have  is  of  an  evening  visit  Mrs. 
Kemble  paid  Mrs.  Browning  in  the  quiet  little 
room  in  the  Bocca  di   Leone,   only  lit   by  a 


SELF-IMPOSED    LAWS  81 

couple  of  tapers  and  by  the  faint  glow  of  the 
wood  fire.  I  looked  from  one  to  the  other  ; 
Mrs.  Browning  welcoming  her  guest,  dim  in 
her  dusky  gown  unrelieved ;  Mrs.  Kemble 
upright  and  magnificent,  robed  on  this  occasion 
like  some  Roman  empress  in  stately  crimson 
edged  with  gold.  It  happened  to  be  the  red 
dress  day  and  she  wore  it.  "  How  do  you  sup- 
pose I  could  have  lived  my  life,"  I  once  heard  her 
say,  "  if  I  had  not  lived  by  rule,  if  I  had  not 
made  laws  for  myself  and  kept  to  them  ?  '  Out 
of  this  stress  of  feeling,  out  of  this  passionate 
rebellion  against  fate,  she  grew  to  the  tender, 
the  noble  and  spirited  maturity  of  her  late 
days.  In  time,  by  habit  and  degrees,  we  learn 
to  understand  a  little  more  how  to  fit  ourselves 
to  circumstance  and  life  begins  to  seem  possible, 
and  to  contain  certain  elements  of  peace  and 
philosophy ;  it  is  in  mid-life,  when  people  try 
to  accommodate  their  own  wants  and  wishes 
to  those  of  others,  that  the  strain  is  greatest 
and  the  problem  occasionally  passes  beyond 
any  powers  of  solution.  Indeed  very  few 
solutions  are  possible,  though  wise  compro- 
mises exist  for  all.  Some  natures  are  more 
adaptable  than  others,  and  not  having  very 
positive  selves  to  manage,  having  impressions 
rather  than  strong  convictions  to  act  upon, 
they  run  fairly  well  along  other  people's  lines  ; 
but   when    strong    feeling,    vivid   realisations, 


82  MRS.  KEMBLE 

passionate  love  of  truth  and  justice,  uncom- 
promising faith  exist,  then  experience  becomes 
hard  indeed.  When  Mrs.  Kemble  went  to  her 
rest  only  the  other  day,  the  critics  who  spoke  so 
inadequately  of  that  great  personality  had  not 
felt  the  influence  of  her  generous  inspiration. 
"A  prouder  nature  never  fronted  the  long 
humiliation  of  life,"  said  Mr.  Henry  Jafctes 
who  knew  her  intimately,  touching  upon  the 
more  tragic  side  of  her  history.* 

One  should  have  a  different  language  with 
which  to  speak  of  each  of  those  one  has  loved 
and  admired  in  turn.  Such  a  language  exists  in 
one's  heart,  but  how  can  one  translate  it  into 
print  ?  Some  friends  seem  like  green  places  in 
the  desert ;  one  thinks  of  them,  and  one  is  at 
rest.  It  is  true  also  that  there  exist  a  certain 
number  who  oppress  one  with  nameless  dis- 
couragement, bores  past  and  present.  But  the 
Elect  are  those  who  put  life  into  one,  who  give 
courage  to  the  faint-hearted  ;  hope,  out  of  their 
own  hearts'  constancy,  and  to  these  Fanny 
Kemble  belonged  indeed.  To  the  end  she 
retained  the  power  of  making  new  friends,  of 
being  loved  by  them  and  of  loving  them.  One 
member  of  my  own  family,  whom  the  elder 
lady  was  pleased  to  christen  Rosalind,  only 
knew  her  when  she  was  long  past  seventy  years 

*  In  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  May,  1893, 1  also  read  a  very 
remarkable  and  most  interesting  article  about  my  old  friend,  by 
Mr.  Lee,  who  had  known  her  in  her  youth. 


IN    A   SHOP  83 

of  age,  but  what  a  true  and  spontaneous  link 
was  that  which  sprang  up  between  them  both, 
one  which,  so  wrote  Mrs.  Wister,  added  to  the 
happiness  of  her  mother's  later  years  ! 

Mrs.  Kemble  returned  love  with  love  in  full 
measure,  whether  it  came  to  her  in  the  shape 
of  beautiful  white  azaleas  from  a  faithful  friend's 
hand,  or  of  music  played  so  as  to  delight  her 
fine  taste,  or  even  as  dwnmc  Liebe  with  nothing 
to  say,  nothing  to  show. 

I  once  went  out  shopping  with  her  on  a 
spring  morning  when  she  thought  her  room 
would  look  the  brighter  for  muslin  curtains  to 
admit  the  light.  She  carried  a  long  netted 
purse  full  of  sovereigns  in  her  hand.  We  drove 
to  Regent  Street,  to  a  shop  where  she  told  me 
her  mother  and  her  aunt  used  to  go.  It  may 
have  been  over  that  very  counter  that  the 
classic  "  Will  it  Wash  ?  "  was  uttered.  The 
shopman,  who  had  assuredly  not  served  Mrs. 
Siddons,  produced  silken  hangings  and  worsted 
and  fabrics  of  various  hues  and  textures,  to 
Mrs.  Kemble's  great  annoyance.  I  had  moved 
to  another  counter  and  came  back  to  find  her 
surrounded  by  draperies,  sitting  on  her  ciiair 
and  looking  very  serious  ;  distant  thunder 
seemed  in  the  air.  u  Young  man,"  she  said  to 
the  shopman,  "perhaps  your  time  is  of  no  value 
to  you — to  me  my  time  is  of  great  value.  I 
shall  thank  you  to  show  me  the  things  I  asked 


84  MRS.  KEMBLE 

for  instead  of  all  these  things  for  which  I  did 
not  ask,"  and  she  flashed  such  a  glance  at  him 
as  must  have  surprised  the  youth.  He  looked 
perfectly  scared,  seemed  to  leap  over  the 
counter,  and  the  muslin  curtains  appeared  in  a 
moment. 

Mrs.  Kemble  once  asked  me  suddenly  what 
colour  her  eyes  were,  and,  confused  and  unready, 
I  answered,  "  Light  eyes."  At  the  moment 
indeed  they  looked  amber  somehow,  not  unlike 
the  eyes  of  some  of  those  captive  birds  one 
sees  in  their  cages  sitting  alone  in  the  midst 
of  crowds.  Mrs.  Kemble  laughed  at  my 
answer.  "  Light  eyes  !  Where  are  your  own  ? 
Do  you  not  know  that  I  have  been  celebrated 
for  my  dark  eyes  ?  "  she  said  ;  and  then  I  looked 
again  and  they  were  dark  and  brilliant,  and 
looking  at  me  with  a  half-amused,  half-reproach- 
ful earnestness. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  early  years  of  the 
century  that  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  sketched 
that  well-known  and  very  charming  head  of 
Miss  Fanny  Kemble  with  which  we  are  most 
of  us  acquainted.  The  oval  face,  the  beautiful 
eyes,  the  wise  young  brows,  the  glossy  pro- 
fusion of  dark  hair,  represent  her  youth ;  she 
was  no  less  striking  in  her  age,  though  no  great 
painter  ever  depicted  it.  She  grew  to  be  old 
indeed,  but  it  was  only  for  a  little  while  that 
she    was    an   old   woman.      Stately,   upright, 


CHARACTERISTICS  85 

ruddy  and  brown  of  complexion,  almost  to  the 
very  last ;  mobile  and  expressive  of  feature, 
reproachful,  mocking,  and  humorous,  heroic, 
uplifted  in  turn.  This  was  no  old  woman, 
feeling  the  throb  of  life  with  an  intensity  far 
beyond  that  of  younger  people,  splendid  in 
expression,  vehement,  and  yet  at  times  tender 
with  a  tenderness  such  as  is  very  rare.  She 
was  indeed  one  of  those  coming  from  the 
mountains,  one  of  the  bearers  of  good  tidings. 
As  a  girl  I  used  to  watch  Mrs.  Kemble 
sedately  at  her  work,  and  so  in  later  days 
we  have  still  seen  her,  sitting  stitching  in 
her  armchair,  dressed  in  her  black  silk  Paris 
dress  and  lace  cap.  She  sits  upright  by  the 
window  with  flowers  on  the  table  beside  her, 
while  her  birds  are  pecking  in  their  cage.  For 
a  long  time  she  kept  and  tended  certain 
American  mocking  birds,  letting  them  out  of 
their  cages  to  fly  about  the  room,  and  perch 
here  and  there  upon  the  furniture.  "  I  have 
no  right,"  she  used  to  say,  "  to  inflict  the 
annoyance  of  my  pleasures  upon  my  servants, 
and  therefore  I  attend  to  my  birds  and  their 
requirements  myself."  She  emphasises  her 
words  as  she  speaks,  inserting  the  long  coloured 
threads  with  extra  point,  or  again,  when  she  is 
interested  in  what  she  says,  putting  down  her 
tapestry  and  looking  straight  into  your  face, 
while  she  explains  her  meaning  directly  and 

G 


86  MRS.  KEMBLE 

clearly,  without  fear  of  being  misunderstood. 
I  once  complained  to  her  of  something  said 
by  some  one  else.  "  I  do  not  care  what  any 
one  thinks  of  me,  or  chooses  to  say  of  me" — I 
can  almost  hear  her  speak — "  nay,  more  than 
that,  I  do  not  care  what  any  one  chooses  to 
say  of  the  people  I  love  ;  it  does  not  in  any 
way  affect  the  truth.  People  are  at  liberty  to 
say  what  they  choose,  and  I  am  also  at  liberty 
not  to  care  one  farthing  for  what  they  say,  nor 
for  any  mistakes  that  they  make."  What  Mrs. 
Kemble  did  care  for,  scrupulously,  with  infinite 
solicitude,  was  the  fear  of  having  caused  pain 
by  anything  that  she  had  said  in  the  energy  of 
the  moment ;  she  would  remember  it  and  think 
over  it  after  days  had  passed.  People  did  not 
always  understand  her,  nor  how  her  love  of 
truth,  as  it  appeared  to  her,  did  not  prevent  her 
tenderness  for  the  individual ;  she  would  also 
take  it  for  granted,  that  whoever  it  was  she 
was  talking  to  also  preferred  the  truth  to  any 
adaptation  of  it.  Her  stories  of  the  past  were 
endlessly  interesting  and  various.  She  had 
known  everybody  interesting  as  well  as  un- 
interesting. She  had  always  detested  banalities, 
and  even  as  a  girl  she  seems  to  have  had  the 
gift  of  making  other  people  speak  out  of  their 
hearts.  Her  pathetic  story  of  Mary  Shelley 
haunts  one  with  the  saddest  persistence,  and 
seems  to  sigh  back  the  curtain  of  the  past. 


-AS   YOU    LIKE    IT"  8; 

"  Bring  up  a  boy  to  think  for  himself,"  she  as 
a  girl  once  said  to  Mrs.  Shelley ;  and  to  this 
came  the  mother's  passionate  answer,  "  Ah !  no, 
no,  bring  him  up  to  think  like  other  people." 

Mr.  Henry  James  instances  among  her 
other  social  gifts,  her  extraordinary  power  of 
calling  up  the  representation  of  that  which  was 
in  her  mind,  and  impressing  others  with  her 
own  impression.  Those,  he  says,  who  some- 
times went  with  her  to  the  play  in  the  last 
years  of  her  life,  will  remember  the  Juliets,  the 
Beatrices,  the  Rosalinds,  whom  she  could  still 
make  vivid  without  any  accessory  except  the 
surrounding  London  uproar. 

I  myself  fortunately  once  happened  to  ask 
her  some  question  concerning  "As  You  Like  It," 
which  had  been  Mrs.  Sartoris's  favourite  play. 
Suddenly,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  the  little  room 
seemed  transformed ;  there  were  the  actors,  no, 
not  even  actors ;  there  stood  Rosalind  and 
Celia  themselves,  there  stood  Jacques,  there 
was  Orlando.  One  spoke  and  then  another, 
Rosalind  pleading,  the  stern  Duke  unrelenting  ; 
then  somehow  we  were  carried  to  the  forest 
with  its  depths  and  its  delightful  company.  It 
all  lasted  but  a  few  moments,  and  there  was 
Mrs.  Kemble  again  sitting  in  her  chair  in  her 
usual  corner ;  and  yet  I  cannot  to  this  day 
realise  that  the  whole  beautiful  mirage  did  not 
sweep  through  the  room,  with  colour  and  light 


88  MRS.  KEMBLE 

and  emotion,  and  the  rustling  of  the  trees,  and 
the  glittering  of  embroidered  draperies. 

Mrs.  Kemble  told  me  that  she  herself  had 
only  once  heard  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Siddons,  read. 
She  said  the  impression  was  very  overpowering, 
though  she  had  been  almost  a  child  at  the  time. 
It  was  from  the  witches'  scene  in  "  Macbeth  " 
that  Mrs.  Siddons  read.  She  was  very  old  and 
broken  at  the  time,  and  living  in  retirement, 
but  for  a  moment  she  forgot  her  suffering  state. 
The  sense  of  storm  and  mystery  and  power 
was  all  round  about,  Mrs.  Kemble  said.  One 
can  imagine  the  scene,  the  dark-eyed  maiden 
sitting  at  the  feet  of  the  great  actress  and 
receiving  initiation  from  her  failing  hands. 

The  true  dramatic  faculty  does  not  indeed 
depend  on  footlights,  or  on  a  stage  ;  it  is  a 
special  gift  from  spirit  to  spirit.  Fanny  Kemble 
was  almost  the  very  last  representative  of  the 
ruling  race  to  which  she  belonged,  and  in  no 
small  degree  did  she  retain  to  the  very  end 
their  noble  gift  of  illumination,  of  giving  life  to 
words  and  feelings.  She  herself  has  defined 
this  power.  "  Things  dramatic  and  things 
theatrical  are  often  confounded  together,"  she 
writes.  "  English  people,  being  for  the  most 
part  neither  one  nor  the  other,  speak  as  if  they 
were  identical — instead  of  so  dissimilar  that 
they  are  nearly  opposite.  That  which  is 
dramatic  in  human  nature  is  the  passionate, 


THE    DRAMATIC  89 

emotional,  humorous  element,  the  simplest 
portion  of  our  composition  ;  that  which  imitates 
it  is  its  theatrical  reproduction.  The  dramatic 
is  the  real  of  which  the  theatrical  is  the  false. 
A  combination  of  the  power,"  she  continues, 
"of  representing  passion  and  emotion  with  that 
of  imagining  or  conceiving  it,  is  essential  to 
make  a  good  actor ;  their  combination  in  the 
highest  degree  alone  makes  a  great  one." 

I  remember  Mrs.  Sartoris  once  saying,  "  I 
do  not  know  if  you  will  think  it  very  conceited 
of  me ;  but  it  always  seems  to  me  that  no  one 
I  ever  talk  to  is  able  to  say  anything  clearly 
and  to  the  point,  except  myself  and  my  sister 
Fanny.  When  she  speaks,  I  know  exactly 
what  she  means  and  wants  to  say  ;  when  other 
people  speak,  I  have  to  find  out  what  they 
mean,  and  even  then  I  am  not  certain  that  they 
know  it  themselves." 

Mrs.  Kemble  was  dramatic  rather  than 
dictatorial.  Her  selection  of  facts  was  curiously 
partial  and  even  biased ;  not  so  her  uncom- 
promising sense  of  their  moral  value.  When 
she  sat  with  her  watch  open  before  her,  reading, 
writing,  working  by  rule,  it  was  because  time 
itself  was  of  importance  in  her  eyes,  rather 
than  her  work.  For  her,  life  belonged  to  time, 
rather  than  time  to  life.  She  carried  her  love 
of  method  into  everything,  even  into  the  game 
of  Patience  with  which   she  amused   herself 


90  MRS.  KEMBLE 

Evening  after  evening  the  table  would  be  set 
and  the  appointed  number  of  games  would  be 
played  conscientiously  whether  she  was  tired 
or  not,  inclined  or  not ;  a  beloved  enchantress 
dealing  out  the  passing  destinies  to  the  paste- 
board men  and  women  on  the  table  before  her. 
Mrs.  Kemble  once  sent  over  for  a  neighbour 
to  teach  him  Patience ;  one  might  moralise 
over  the  combination — Mrs.  Kemble  teaching 
Patience  in  her  grand-seigneur  fashion  and 
meekly  subservient  to  the  cards !  It  was 
indeed  because  she  was  so  conscious  of  passion- 
ate interests  and  diversities,  that  she  tried  to 
shape  her  life  to  one  recurring  pattern.  There 
is  an  anecdote  of  Frederica  Bremer,  who  was 
not  willing  to  see  Mrs.  Kemble  on  one  occasion, 
explaining  afterwards,  "  I  could  not  see  so 
many  people  as  you  are  when  I  had  a  head- 
ache." She  was  indeed  many  people,  actors 
and  musicians,  philosophers,  teachers,  and  poets, 
in  one.  She  was  eighty  before  she  attempted 
a  novel,  but  her  letters  are  models,  especially 
the  earlier  ones.  Her  poems  are  very  lovely. 
Her  M  Farewell  to  the  Alps  "  was  written  after 
threescore  years  and  ten  had  passed  over  her 
head,  and  I  heard  her  read  it  with  tears. 
Once  I  asked  her  why  she  so  disliked  the  stage, 
loving  all  that  belonged  to  it  as  she  did.  She 
said  that  it  was  because  she  loved  her  own 
being  even  more  than  her  art ;  that  she  found 


RELIGION  91 

the  constant  simulation  of  emotion,  in  time 
destroyed  in  itself  the  possibility  of  natural 
feeling,  and  that  she  wished  to  keep  the  posses- 
sion of  her  own  soul  ;  I  think  she  has  also 
written  this  somewhere  in  her  "  Records." 
These  lines  are  hers  : 

"  A  sacred  burden  is  this  life  ye  bear, 
Look  on  it,  lift  it,  bear  it  solemnly, 
Stand  up  and  walk  beneath  it  steadfastly, 
But  onward,  upward,  till  the  goal  you  win." 

Her  convictions  were  deep ;  what  she  said 
of  her  own  religious  faith  was  that  it  was  "  in- 
vincible, unreasoning."  I  have  heard  a  friend 
describe  how,  as  they  came  along  the  mountain 
pass  from  Rosehlaui,  Mrs.  Kemble  made  her 
bearers  set  her  down  at  the  summit  of  the 
ascent.  "  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills," 
she  said,  breaking  out  into  the  words  of  the 
Psalm,  and  repeating  verse  after  verse.  She 
used  to  go  regularly  to  church  when  she  was 
in  London,  though  I  do  not  think  any  of  the 
steeples  and  pulpits  which  adorn  South 
Kensington  exactly  suited  the  deep  and  fervent 
spirit  of  her  faith.  She  was  neither  High 
Church  nor  Low  Church  nor  Broad  Church, 
and  once  after  witnessing  a  Catholic  ceremony, 
the  Fete  Dieu,  in  some  foreign  city,  she 
exclaimed  to  her  foreign  man-servant,  u  Oh, 
Govert,  what  an  amusing  religion  you  have!" 
But  her  faith  was  a  noble  one,  and  her  reverence 


92  MRS.  KEMBLE 

for  what  was  good  and  great  seemed  to  make 
goodness  and  greatness  nearer  to  us. 

Of  all  possessions,  that  of  the  added  power 
which  comes  to  us  through  the  gifts  of  others  is 
one  of  the  most  mysterious  and  most  precious. 

Mrs.  Kemble  possessed  to  a  rare  degree 
the  gift  of  ennobling  that  to  which  she  turned 
her  mind.  Kindness  is  comparatively  common- 
place, but  that  touch  which  makes  others  feel 
akin  to  qualities  greater  than  any  they  are 
conscious  of  in  themselves,  was,  I  think,  the 
virtue  by  which  she  brought  us  all  into 
subjection. 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS-TIME 

That  particular  Christmas-time  of  which  I  have 
been  writing  which  we  spent  in  Rome  in 
1853—54  still  seems  to  me  unlike  any  other  in 
all  my  life.  It  began  with  chill  winds  and 
piercing  weather,  but  in  a  little  while  winter 
turned  to  summer.  The  sun  shone  upon  the 
Roman  streets,  flowers  bloomed  in  the  gardens, 
birds  with  their  white  wings  crossed  the  windows 
of  our  old  palace,  standing  open  wide  all  day 
long.  The  music  of  the  pifferari  sounded  in 
the  air,  so  did  the  voices  calling  and  singing 
down  below. 

•  We  were  in  the  Via  della  Croce,  which 
leads  to  the  Bocca  dei  Leoni,  where  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Browning  were  living.  It  was  Mr. 
Browning  who  had  directed  my  father  to  our 
palace  ;  on  the  ground  floor  of  which,  a  pastry- 
cook had  established  his  shop, — Spilman, 
celebrated  for  his  cream  tarts  and  little  cakes. 
He  was  a  charming  neighbour,  so  we  thought 
in  those  days,  and  so  did  various  children  who 
used   to  come  to  see  us   from  time  to  time, 


94    A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS-TIME 

climbing  the  stone  staircase  to  spend  an  hour 
or  two. 

Myfather  was  writing  "The  Newcomes"  and 
drawing  the  pictures  for  "  The  Rose  and  the 
Ring  "  in  those  great  vaulted  rooms  which  we 
temporarily  inhabited,  with  the  marble  tables 
and  gilt  armchairs  and  the  swinging  lamps  and 
lanterns. 

Mr.  Browning  was  also  at  work  in  his 
little  study,  while  Mrs.  Browning,  at  hand 
close  by,  sitting  by  her  warm  fire,  was  weaving 
her  spells  and,  as  we  read,  hiding  her  papers 
under  the  sofa  cushion  if  anybody  came  in. 
My  sister  and  I  came  in  at  many  odd  times, 
and  though  I  can  remember  her  little  well-worn 
inkstand  and  her  shabby  pen,  with  which  she 
wrote  so  delicately,  I  never  saw  any  of  her 
manuscript. 

Rome  was  crowded  with  visitors  that 
Christmas  ;  charming  Scotch  people,  gracious 
English  ladies,  enterprising  young  Americans. 
A  beautiful  bride  took  me  more  than  once  to 
see  the  gorgeous  sights  and  functions  of  the 
season  ;  monks  in  their  flapping  robes  and 
sandals  walked  the  streets  in  those  days ;  so 
did  cardinals,  followed  by  their  attendant  foot- 
men :  the  Pope  himself  used  to  go  by,  blessing 
the  kneeling  people,  his  great  coach  following 
at  a  little  distance.  There  were  also  peasants 
in  their  dresses  and  models  lining  the  streets, 


GIBSON    IN    HIS   STUDIO        95 

My  father  took  us  to  the  galleries  and  to 
some  of  the  studios.  I  can  remember  Gibson 
showing  us  his  tinted  "  Venus,"  while  Miss 
Hosmer  stood  by  in  a  pinafore  and  with  short 
curling  hair.  Mr.  Gibson  told  my  father  the 
story  of  a  couple  who  had  just  been  to  see  him 
with  their  little  boy,  and  he  seemed  much 
amused  because  the  little  boy  had  asked  if  that 
was  a  ball  of  soap  the  Venus  held  in  her 
hand.  Seeing  her  without  her  clothes  he 
naturally  thought  she  was  going  to  be  washed. 
"  A  ball  of  s-soap,"  Gibson  repeated,  grimly 
chuckling  ;  "  he  called  it  a  ball  of  soap." 

My  father's  old  friends,  Mrs.  Kemble  and 
Mrs.  Sartoris,  were  both  in  Rome.  Mrs. 
Kemble  ruled  from  the  modest  lodging  near 
the  Piazza  del  Popolo. 

Mrs.  Sartoris's  dwelling-place  was  very 
different.  She  was  established  in  one  of  those 
charming  spacious  homes  of  hers  which  seemed 
to  belong  to  her  life  and  nature.  Interesting 
people  were  always  coming  and  going,  from 
her  rooms  beautiful  music  was  sounding  where 
her  flower-framed  windows  looked  out  across 
the  wide  Roman  view.  She  made  us  look  and 
admire — she  loved  to  dispense  and  to  share  all 
this  beauty  with  others. 

It  was  upon  one  of  these  golden  days  that 
my  sister  and  I,  crossing  an  open  piazza,  saw 
her  carriage    drawn  up,  not  by  the  kerb  but 


96    A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS-TIME 

standing  well  out  in  the  sunshine,  and  within 
it  sat  a  figure  wrapped  in  a  cloak.  Leigh  ton 
was  waiting  by  the  doorway  of  the  carriage 
and  he  waved  his  peaked  hat.  Almost 
immediately  Mrs.  Sartoris  herself  came  out  of 
some  house  near  by,  and  as  we  met  her  she 
said,  "  Look  ;  do  you  know  who  that  is  ?  That 
is  Lockhart,  Walter  Scott's  son-in-law.  He  is 
very  ill ;  we  are  going  to  take  him  for  a  drive 
in  the  Campagna."  He  gazed  straight  before 
him  like  some  solemn  brooding  eagle,  silent 
and  mysterious.  He  was  wrapped  in  cloaks 
and  wore  a  soft  travelling  cap,  not  unlike  that 
hood  in  which  Erasmus  is  commonly  depicted. 
I  only  saw  his  profile  and  the  pale  clear-cut 
features  as  the  carriage  rolled  away. 

The  incident,  trifling  as  it  was,  impressed 
me — the  sick  man,  the  strenuous  life  behind 
him,  the  feeling  of  the  great  Campagna  outside 
the  walls,  the  friends'  good  company,  the 
glorious  warmth  of  land  and  sky.  The  clown 
says  that  youth  is  a  stuff  that  won't  endure. 
But  moments  of  youth  last  as  long  as  we  do 
ourselves,  and  we  babble  of  green  fields  to 
the  last. 

After  the  carnage  had  driven  away  that 
day,  the  pale  beautiful  face  was  still  before  me 
as  if  it  belonged  not  to  the  present  but  to  some 
mediaeval  figure  cut  out  of  one  of  the  galleries. 

I  have  said  that  Leighton  was  standing  by 


JOHN   LOCKHART  97 

the  open  door  of  the  carriage.  Long  after- 
wards I  wrote  and  asked  him  if  my  impressions 
were  correct  and  if  he  remembered  that  drive. 
He  said  he  could  not  remember  to  which 
particular  occasion  I  referred,  but  he  used 
constantly  to  take  long  drives  with  Mr.  Lock- 
hart,  going  out  into  the  Campagna  of  an  after- 
noon. 

u  Was  he  not  striking  ? "  Lord  Leighton 
wrote.  "  Could  any  one  forget  him  who  had 
ever  seen  him  with  his  beautiful  clean-cut 
features,  so  pale  and  so  fiery  at  the  same  time  ; 
those  eyes  of  jet  in  a  face  of  ivory  ?" 

And  now  I  must  quote  one  last  sentence  of 
Lord  Leighton's  letter  concerning  Spilman  and 
the  palazzo  in  which  we  lived  and  to  which  we 
returned  that  day  after  seeing  Lockhart. 

"  This  stern  man,"  so  he  wrote,  M  had  one 
very  human  peculiarity.  He  was  fond  of — 
what  do  you  call  those  rolled  wafers  full  of 
whipped  cream  ?  You  would  not  have  expected 
him  to  like  goodies,  would  you  ?  "  These,  of 
course,  were  the  very  cream  tarts  which  I  can 
remember  so  well  and  which  the  children  liked 
when  they  came  to  see  us  and  the  pictures  that 
my  father  devised  for  them.  But  it  was  not  for 
forty  years  that  I  knew  Mr.  Lockhart  also 
liked  them. 


PRESENT  TAPESTRIES  AND 
FAR-OFF  BELLS  AND  POME- 
GRANATES 

I  had  been  asked  to  look  at  some  hangings 
which  are  for  the  present  deposited  at  the 
Victoria  and  Albert  Museum,  and,  going  there 
accordingly,  I  was  led  by  a  young  friend  from 
court  to  court  until  we  reached  the  place  where 
they  were  displayed  upon  the  marble  floor. 
As  I  looked,  suddenly  an  old  friend's  voice 
seemed  to  be  sounding  in  my  ears.  "  Yes, 
that  is  the  Florentine  tapestry,"  Miss  Browning 
was  saying.  "  Robert  brought  it  all  over  with 
the  rest  of  the  furniture  from  the  Casa  Guidi." 
Then  I  remembered  how  the  poet  himself  had 
come  into  the  room,  crossing  it  with  that  alert 
footstep  of  his,  and  how  Miss  Browning  ceased 
speaking  and  let  him  go  on  with  the  story.  It 
is  sometimes  difficult  to  distinguish  between 
the  things  one  has  imagined  and  the  things 
one  has  really  known,  but  this  little  meeting  is 
no  imagination. 

The  webs  of  life  stretch  on  from  year  to 
year,  from  one  land  to  another.     The  tapestry, 


ROBERT   BROWNING  99 

which  now  seems  to  bring  Italy  itself  to  Crom- 
well Road — to  the  "  Textile  Department  "  in 
whose  keeping  it  is  at  present — also  raises  for 
some  of  us  who  used  to  go  there,  the  London 
home  where  the  poet  first  dwelt  when  he  lived 
in  Warwick  Crescent  forty  years  ago. 

"He  loved  antiquities,"  says  Mrs.  Sutherland 
Orr,  describing  it  all  in  her  biography,  "  in  a 
manner  which  sometimes  recalled  his  father's 
affection  for  old  books."  Most  of  his  posses- 
sions had  been  bought  in  Venice,  where  his 
visits  to  the  curiosity  shops  had  been  frequent. 
He  liked  to  match  the  carved  oak  and  massive 
gilding  and  valuable  tapestries,  all  of  which 
carried  something  of  the  Casa  Guidi  into  his 
new  home,  and  brass  lamps  which  had  once 
hung  inside  chapels  were  there,  and  to  these 
was  added,  in  the  following  years,  one  of  silver, 
also  bought  in  Venice,  the  Jewish  "  Sabbath 
Lamp."  Browning  had  a  theory  which  he 
used  to  propound  that  almost  all  great  men 
had  a  strain  of  Jewish  blood  kindling  in  their 
veins — where  his  own  came  from  I  do  not 
know. 

The  days  are  far  behind  us  when  the  poet 
lived  in  his  house  by  the  waterside,  that  peace- 
ful place  to  which  he  had  come  by  chance  and 
where  he  stayed  for  so  many  years.  It  was 
London,  but  to  many  of  us  it  seemed  London 
touched  by  some  indefinite  romance  of  its  own 


ioo        PRESENT   TAPESTRIES 

a  tranquil  oasis  by  the  canal,  where  the  waters 
looked  cool  and  where  deep  green  trees  shaded 
the  crescent. 

The  house  was  an  ordinary  house,  but  the 
oak  furniture  and  tapestry  gave  dignity  to  the 
long  drawing-room.  Pictures  and  books  lined 
the  stairs ;  in  the  garden  at  the  back  dwelt  at 
one  time  two  weird  grey  geese  with  quivering 
wings  and  long  throats  who  used  to  come 
hissing  and  fluttering  to  their  master.  The 
presence  of  "  the  man  of  rock  and  sunshine  " 
gave  a  soul  to  the  four  walls.  It  was  here 
that  he  accomplished  some  of  his  finest  work. 
It  was  here  he  made  for  himself  a  resting-place 
after  his  great  sorrow.  A  carved  oak  cabinet 
used  to  stand  in  front  of  the  tapestries  as  they 
hung  upon  the  wall.  When  I  saw  them  again, 
spread  out  upon  the  marble  of  the  great  hall 
in  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  they  were  magic  carpets  to  whisk 
one  away,  past  the  past  itself,  even  that  of 
Florence  and  of  the  Casa  Guidi  windows.  It 
was  in  1849  that  the  Brownings  set  up  their 
home  there.  "  Six  beautiful  rooms  and  a 
kitchen, "  Mrs.  Browning  writes.  "  Three  of 
them  quite  palace  rooms  opening  on  to  the 
terrace."  There  the  poets  lived  their  own 
lives,  seeing  few  English  visitors  ;  as  to  Italian 
society,  she  says,  "  One  may  as  well  take  to 
longing  for  the  evening  star."     There  is  a  little 


CLASSICAL   FANCIES  toi 

story  connected  with  the  flying  carpets  which 
my  friends  at  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum 
told  me.  Mrs.  Browning  had  complained  of 
the  cold,  of  the  draughts  from  the  terrace,  and 
her  husband  went  out  then  and  there  and 
bought  these  tapestries  from  a  rag-shop  hard 
by  for  a  few  hundred  francs.  Now  the  panels 
are  said  to  be  worth  about  ^2000.  There  are 
two  of  them  6  feet  in  height,  17  feet  or  so  in 
length,  enclosed  in  flowing  borders  of  flowers 
and  birds  and  foliage.  It  must  have  all  been 
devised  towards  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  In  Italy  these  classic  fancies  seem  to 
keep  alive  in  the  sunshine.  How  vivid  they 
must  have  been  to  those  who  worked  the  web, 
with  all  that  special  gay  grace  which  belongs 
to  ancient  Italy !  A  contemporary  Autolycus 
might  chant  a  list  of  the  wonders  depicted  in 
these  charming  panels.  Here  are  mythologies 
and  metaphors  and  gardens  and  browsing 
flocks  ;  the  gods  in  Olympus  are  looking  down 
upon  a  golden  age,  upon  an  Arcady  where  the 
infant  Hermes  lies  sleeping,  and  a  messenger 
comes  flying  down  from  the  clouds.  We  see 
far  away  blue  hills  and  the  towers  of  an  ancient 
city  ;  and  is  not  that  a  distant  gibbet  depicted 
with  a  figure  hanging  to  it,  just  outside  the 
city  wall  ?  Then  further  on  among  the  orchards 
and  meadows  we  see  our  Hermes  grown  to 
man's  estate,  stealing  the  cattle  and  driving  it 


im        PRESENT   TAPESTRIES 

away,— Bacchus  appears  and  disappears ;  surely 
music  is  in  the  air.  Is  that  Apollo  himself 
teaching  a  student  to  play  upon  the  flute  while 
dancers  are  merrily  footing  it?  In  the  Brown- 
ings' home  the  tapestry  had  an  air  of  domes- 
ticity, of  poetic  suitability.  Here  in  the  vast 
temple  of  the  art  at  Kensington  it  gains  a 
certain  charm  of  its  own  quite  apart  from  the 
interest  which  belongs  to  its  associations.  My 
friends  at  the  museum  can  appreciate  both,  and 
long  to  keep  this  treasure.  They  have  not 
available  funds,  but  they  dream  of  a  golden- 
hearted  benefactor  and  lover  of  the  Brownings 
who  would  bestow  this  gift  upon  them  or  pur- 
chase it  and  bequeath  it  to  the  nation.  Can 
this  be  the  message  conveyed  by  the  flying 
figure  coming  straight  from  Olympus  ? 

Mr.  Birrell  truly  says  that  "  Browning  is 
the  most  dilettante  of  great  poets.  Do  you 
dabble  in  arts  and  perambulate  picture  galleries  ? 
Browning  must  be  your  favourite  poet ;  he  is 
arts  historian.  Are  you  devoted  to  music? 
So  is  he,  and  has  sought  to  fathom  in  verse 
the  deep  mysteries  of  sound.  .  .  .  Do  you  find 
it  impossible  to  keep  off  theology  ?  Browning 
has  more  theology  than  most  bishops,  could 
puzzle  Gamaliel  and  delight  Aquinas."  The 
critic  quotes  that  noble  saying,  "  Art  was  given 
for  that ;  God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 
lending  our  minds  out."     If  ever  a  man  lent 


M.    MILSAND   AND    HIS   WIFE     103 

his  mind  out  to  help  others  it  was  the  writer  of 
"  Fra  Lippo  Lippi." 

M.  Milsand,  of  whom  there  is  a  photograph 
by  Mrs.  Cameron  in  which  he  is  made  to  look 
like  an  inspired  prophet  out  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, was  Browning  s  chief  friend  and  faithful 
critic.  He  was  also  a  most  cheerful  and  human 
companion  whose  barrels  contained  good  Bur- 
gundy. I  once  described  a  little  festival  to 
which  we  were  invited,  with  Mr.  Browning,  by 
M.  Milsand  and  his  wife  one  summer  when  we 
were  all  in  Normandy  together. 

Now  I  cannot  help  adding  a  letter  I  have 
lately  found  from  Madame  Milsand  written  as 
a  widow  many  years  later  concerning  this 
meeting : 

"  You  do  not  mention  when  you  speak  of 
that  poor  little  feast  upon  the  terrace  which 
you  all  enjoyed  so  kindly  how  Mr.  Browning 
having  seized  his  napkin  and  placing  it  as  the 
foreign  waiters  do  upon  his  arm,  rose  from  the 
table  to  wait  upon  the  ladies  who  were  present. 
.  .  .  Never  had  the  poet  seemed  to  me  so 
interesting  as  upon  that  day,  so  brilliant  and 
so  delightful.  Those/'  says  the  lady,  "  who 
only  live  in  their  present  happiness  can  hardly 
realise  the  pleasure  of  remembering.  Is  it  not 
a  daily  joy  to  think  that  God  has  set  along  our 
road  sincere  and  devoted  friends  ?  " 


TWO    LETTERS   TO   A   PAINTER 
FROM   W.  M.  THACKERAY 

The  two  letters  here  given,  written  to  Mr. 
Frank  Stone,  and  lately  sent  to  the  Editor  of 
the  Cornhill  Magazine  by  Mr.  Arthur  Stone, 
were  first  posted  from  Paris  to  London  at  a 
time  when  my  father  had  gone  there  to  study 
art,  and  when  he  had  first  taken  to  writing  as 
a  means  of  earning  his  livelihood.  My  own 
recollections  do  not  begin  till  some  time  after. 

Looking  back  at  the  vast  ocean  of  days 
succeeding  days  to  which  some  of  us  can  still 
turn  in  wonder,  I  cannot  quite  tell  where  the 
various  events  should  be  reckoned  with,  and 
when  it  was  that  my  sister  came  home  after  a 
drive  with  my  father  (we  were  then  living  with 
him  in  London)  and  told  me  that  he  had  taken 
her  to  a  studio  where  he  had  gone  to  see  a 
friend  of  his,  called  Mr.  Frank  Stone ;  that 
they  seemed  very  happy  to  meet,  and  talked  a 
great  deal,  and  that  before  coming  away  my 
father  said  to  his  friend,  "Do  you  remember 
painting  my  portrait  over  the  picture  of  a  lady 


A    PORTRAIT    OF   W.    M.    T.     105 

with  a  guitar  ?  "     Mr.  Stone  said,  "  Of  course 
I  remember — I  think  I  have  it  still !  "  and  he 
went  into  a  sort  of  dark  cupboard  and  pre- 
sently came  out  with    a   half-finished  picture 
which  he  gave  them,  and   they  brought   the 
canvas  home  in  triumph  in  our  little  carriage. 
I  can  remember  my  father  laughing  as  he  looked 
at  it,  and  saying  he  could  still  make  out  the  red 
sleeves  of  the  lady's  dress  through  the  dark 
paint  of  the  background.     I  have  often  tried 
to  do  so.     The  picture  now  hangs  on  the  wall 
of  my  son's  house  in  Hertfordshire.     It  repre- 
sents my  father  as  I  never  saw  him,  with  curly 
brown  hair ;  there  are  no  spectacles,  dark  eyes 
look  out  of  a  youthful,  cheerful  countenance. 
In  another  picture,  the  same  eyes  are  repeated. 
It  is  that  of  my  father's  father,  the  same  clear 
eyes  and  falling  lids,  which  I  have  seen  in  others 
of  the  clan  descended  from  the  first  William 
Makepeace  Thackeray,  who  lived  on  Hadley 
Green  and  who  left  so  many  descendants.    The 
portrait  by  Frank  Stone  must  have  been  painted 
somewhere  in  the  'thirties,  perhaps  before  the 
first  of  the  two  letters  here  given  was  written. 
It  was  as  a  painter  that  he  had  hoped  to  make 
his  way  rather  than  as  a  writer,  and  his  heart 
always  turned  to  the  studios  rather  than  to  the 
inkpots.     He  would  have  liked  to  read  books 
instead  of  writing  them,  and  to  paint  pictures 
instead  of  looking  at  them,  with  and  without 


106     TWO  LETTERS   TO  A  PAINTER 

spectacles ;  and  the  correspondence  which  has 
been  kept  by  Mr.  Arthur  Stone,  A.R.A.,  the 
brother  of  Mr.  Marcus  Stone,  R.A.,  shows 
what  a  charm  painting  and  painters  ever  had 
for  the  writer  of  "Vanity  Fair."  In  1835  he 
had  gone  over  to  study  art  in  Paris,  and  he  was 
working-  at  the  Louvre  and  in  a  studio.  In 
1837  he  had  married  and  almost  fixed  his  way 
of  life,  but  he  still  looked  backwards,  and  for- 
wards too,  to  the  time  when  he  should  be  a 
painter  again,  and  one  can  realise  what  he  felt 
for  the  work  and  the  workers.  In  my  own 
youth  all  our  happiest  outings  and  holidays 
were  when  we  went  with  him  to  see  pictures 
finished  and  unfinished  on  the  easels  of  those 
kind  and  friendly  magicians  who  evoked  the 
dreams  and  the  realities.  My  father  was  twenty- 
four  when  the  first  of  these  two  letters  was 
written.  Mr.  Stone  was  thirty-seven,  exhibit- 
ing at  the  Royal  Academy,  and  already  well 
known. 

Letter  folded  without  envelope,  addressed  to  Frank 
Stone,  Esqre.y  84,  Newman  Street,  Oxford 
Street,  With  postmark  ;  7,  at  Night, 
April  20,  1835. 

Your  letter  was  the  first  of  the  batch,  my 
dear  Stone,  and  was  more  welcome  to  me  even 
than  the  hot-cross  buns,  which,  on  this  day,  our 
religion  ordains  that  we  should  devour.    I  have 


IN    A   STATE   OF    DESPAIR     107 

been  a  little  spooney  ever  since  the  perusal  of 
the  letter,  but  my  tears  (and  there  were  one  or 
two  upon  my  honour)  were  those  of  a  pleasant 
content,  when  I  thought  of  the  half-dozen  good 
fellows  who  felt  so  kindly  for  me.  God  bless 
all  the  boys  and  watch  over  the  liquors  they 
drink  and  the  pictures  they  draw.  As  for  my- 
self— I  am  in  a  state  of  despair — I  have  got 
enough  torn-up  pictures  to  roast  an  ox  by — the 
sun  riseth  upon  my  efforts  and  goeth  down  on 
my  failures,  and  I  have  become  latterly  so 
disgusted  with  myself  and  art  and  everything 
belonging  to  it,  that  for  a  month  past  I  have 
been  lying  on  sofas  reading  novels,  and  never 
touching  a  pencil. 

In  these  six  months,  I  have  not  done  a 
thing  worth  looking  at.  O  God,  when  will 
Thy  light  enable  my  fingers  to  work,  and  my 
colours  to  shine  ? — if  in  another  six  months,  I 
can  do  no  better,  I  will  arise  and  go  out  and 
hang  myself. 

We  have  an  exhibition  here  with  2500 
pictures  in  it,  of  which  about  a  dozen  are  very 
good,  but  there  is  nobody  near  Wilkie  or  Etty 
or  Landseer;  lots  of  history  pieces  or  what 
they  call  here  "  ecole  anecdotique  " — little  facts 
cut  (out)  of  history  and  dressed  in  correct 
costumes ;  battles,  murders  and  adulteries  are 
the  subjects  preferred.  Of  costumes,  I  have 
amassed  an  awful  collection,  and  this  in  truth 


108     TWO  LETTERS  TO  A  PAINTER 

is  all  I  have  done,  except  some  infamous 
water-colour  copies  perpetrated  at  the  Louvre 
when  it  was  open.  Now  the  old  pictures  are 
covered  up  until  June  by  the  performances  of 
the  modern  men;  there  are  lots  of  six-and- 
thirty  feet  canvases,  but  not  a  good  one  among 
them.  Here  is  as  good  a  portrait  painter  as 
ever  I  saw,  one  Champ  Marlin,  who  has  been 
abused  by  the  Athenaeum  man.  No  good 
water-colours  this  year,  though  I  have  seen 
some  by  Roqueplan  (who  is  a  little  snob  who 
condescended  to  do  me  out  of  a  five-franc 
piece)  that  are  as  fine  as  Reynolds',  most  noble 
in  point  of  colour,  sentiment,  force  and  so  forth. 
I  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  you  used  to 
make  that  nice  grain.  I  have  tried  all  ways 
in  vain.  I  had  hoped  to  have  gone  into 
Germany  for  the  summer,  and  on  to  Italy  in 
autumn,  but  my  governors  and  the  rest  of  our 
tribe  are  to  come  here  in  a  month  and  I  shall 
not  be  sorry  to  stay,  and  have  a  little  more 
copying  at  the  Louvre.  Have  you  been  asked 
to  a  tea-party  by  my  Mamma?  I  wish  you 
would  call  there  some  day,  for  you  are  a  great 
favourite,  and  if  you  talk  about  the  son  of  the 
house,  you  can't  talk  too  much  or  stay  too 
long.  Mahony  gives  me  great  accounts  of  you 
and  Mac.  O  happy  men,  you  are  on  the  high- 
road to  fame  and  fortune — et  moi,  moi,  pauvre 
jouet  de  la  fortune,  voyant  jour  par  jour   les 


AFTER   MARRIAGK  109 

esperances  du  matin  moquees  par  les  horribles 
realites  du  soir.  Je  n'ai  qu'a  lutter,  a  me 
resigner,  a.  me  consoler  de  mes  propres  malheurs 
dans  les  succes  de  mes  amis.  With  this  flare 
up  in  the  French  tongue  for  the  grammar  of 
which  I  do  not  vouch,  I  must  conclude  my 
letter. 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  fellow.  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  your  letter  and  for  your 
feelings  towards  I  who  is  most  sincerely  your 
friend, 

W.  M.  T. 

Two  years  later,  my  father  writes  again. 
He  is  married  by  this  time  and  living  in  Paris, 
and  one  may  share  his  wistful  leanings  towards 
that  peaceful  life  of  art,  and  that  tranquil  ex- 
perience of  effort  after  beauty,  which  was  never 
to  be  quite  his,  though  never  quite  denied  to 
him  all  his  life  long. 

15  bis,  Rue  Neuve  St.  Augustin,  Paris, 

20  January,  1837. 

My  dear  Stone, — I  have  sent  some  draw- 
ings to  London,  which  I  want  to  be  submitted 
to  your  Committee,  and  for  which  I  hope  you 
will  act  as  the  God-Father  or  Patron.  I  fear 
very  much  that  my  skill  in  the  art  is  not 
sufficiently  great  to  entitle  me  to  a  place  in 
your  Society,  but  I  will  work  hard  and,  please 
God,  improve.     Perhaps  also  the  waggish  line 


no    TWO  LETTERS  TO  A  PAINTER 

which  I  have  adopted  in  the  drawings  may 
render  them  acceptable  for  variety's  sake. 
There  is  no  man,  I  think,  except  Hunt  who 
amuses  himself  with  such  subjects.  I  hope 
you  and  Cattermole  will  say  a  good  word  for 
an  old  friend  and  here  I  leave  the  business ; 
confiding  in  friendship ;  trusting  in  Heaven  ; 
and  pretty  indifferent  about  failure,  because  I 
don't  think  I  deserve  success  as  yet. 

I  have  sent  the  drawings  to  my  Mother  in 
Albion  Street ;  will  you,  like  a  bold  fellow, 
take  them  under  your  charge  and  present  them 
on  the  first  Wednesday  in  February  before  the 
astonished  Board  ?  I  wish  I  had  had  more  time 
to  work,  but  the  newspaper  takes  up  most  part 
of  my  time,  and  carries  off  a  great  deal  of  my 
enthusiasm.  Mahony,  who  brings  me  news  of 
the  boys,  says  that  you  are  all  flourishing,  and 
rich— Maclise  with  a  fine  house  in  Fitzroy 
Square,  and  Cattermole  in  possession  of 
Windsor  Castle,  I  think. 

Cannot  you  manage  a  trip  here  ?  Only 
twenty-five  shillings  and  I  promise  you  dinners, 
breakfastses  and  every  delicate  attention  on 
Mrs.  T's  part  and  mine.  Lewis  was  here, 
and  very  much  to  my  disappointment,  I  never 
knew  of  it  until  his  departure.  My  letter  is 
very  incoherent,  and  yet  I  am  sober,  but  the 
fact  is  three  women  are  chattering  at  my  elbow 
and  I  can  scarcely  write  or  think. 


A    POPULAR   PAINTER         in 

Goodbye,  my  dear  Stone,  here  is  a  very 
short  letter,  all  about  my  own  interests,  but 

I  have  to  write  so  hard  for  money,  that  I  can't 
write  for  love.  Send  me  a  line  about  the  lads 
and  yourself,  and  salute  them  all  for  the  sake 
of  your  old  friend, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

There  is  a  letter  from  Edward  FitzGerald 
in  1845  to  Frederick  Tennyson  :  "  If  you  want 
to  know  something  of  the  exhibition,  read 
Frasers  Magazine  for  this  month,  Thackeray 
has  a  paper  on  the  matter  full  of  fun.  I  met 
Stone  in  the  street  the  other  day,  and  he  told 
me  with  perfect  sincerity  and  increasing  warmth, 
how  though  he  loved  old  Thackeray,  these 
yearly  out-speakings  of  his  sorely  tried  him." 

The  author  of  l(  Vanity  Fair  "  had  not  yet 
succeeded  in  climbing  far  upon  the  ladder  of 
success,  but  Mr.  Stone  was  now  a  painter  to 
be  looked  to.  From  careful  pencil  drawings 
for  the  "  Book  of  Beauty  "  (how  often  in  early 
youth  has  the  writer  pored  admiringly  over 
these  lovely  ladies !),  he  had  been  elected 
Associate  to  the  Water  Colour  Society,  and 
then  to  the  Royal  Academy;  then  Associate 
to  the  Royal  Water  Colour  Exhibition.  His 
early  works  were  engraved  and  very  popular. 

II  The  Last  Appeal"  will  be  remembered.  It 
is   a  touching   and  a  dramatic   appeal.     The 


ii2     TWO   LETTERS  TO  A  PAINTER 

young  man  looks  at  the  hesitating  maiden ; 
there  are  other  companion  pictures  of  the  same 
sort,  "  The  Old,  Old  Story,"  "  Cross  Purposes," 
all  engraved  and  admired  for  their  graceful 
sentiment.  The  "  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography  '  writes  of  Frank  Stone  with 
courteous  appreciation  as  the  intimate  friend 
of  Dickens,  the  associate  of  the  poets  Campbell 
and  Rogers,  and  of  my  father.  He  seems  to 
have  been  one  of  the  celebrated  company  of 
amateur  players  organised  by  Dickens,  who 
went  on  tours,  travelling  north  in  the  steps  of 
Shakespeare  and  his  companions.  About  1850 
Frank  Stone  exhibited  various  scenes  from 
Shakespeare. 

Mr.  Arthur  Stone  remembers,  as  I  do,  a 
summer  which  we  were  all  spending  at  Boulogne, 
we  of  the  ancienne  garde  of  the  present,  being 
then  in  cheerful  prime  as  boys  and  girls, 
frequenting  the  shores  and  ramparts  of  Boulogne 
and  the  gardens  of  acacia  and  monthly  roses 
round  the  charming,  somewhat  mouldy  houses 
and  pavilions  we  inhabited,  from  which  I  can 
remember  the  Dickens  family  and  the  Stones 
issuing  somewhat  tumultuously,  and  Mr.  Stone 
himself  also  standing  there,  portly,  benevolent, 
tall,  round-faced,  surrounded  by  young  people. 

"  Why,  of  course,  I  remember  him,"  writes 
my  old  friend,  Mrs.  Perugini;  "I  remember  him 
from  very  early  days,  even  before  the  Boulogne 


F.  STONE  AND   HIS  DAUGHTER  113 

time.  He  always  seemed  to  me  a  most  delight- 
ful and  most  amiable  giant,  specially  sent  into 
this  world  for  the  amusement  of  my  sister  and 
myself,  and  'the  boys.'  He  had  a  way  of 
shaking  out  a  beautiful  mop  of  brown  waving 
hair  that  was  perfectly  irresistible." 

Mr.  Stone's  youngest  daughter  inherited  a 
crown  of  burnished  gold  which  I  can  still  see 
shining  in  the  doorway  of  Messrs.  Colnaghis' 
shop,  one  day  when  my  father  had  crossed  over 
to  speak  to  her  and  to  her  brother;  she  was 
married  not  long  after  to  a  son  of  John 
Sterling's.  Her  daughter  still  lives  on  Campden 
Hill,  in  the  house  her  parents  built  there. 


IN  A   FRENCH   VILLAGE 

Saturday. — I  wonder  when  the  English  landed 
in  France  with  Henry  V.  upon  this  very  coast 
if  it  was  as  green  and  sweet  to  look  upon  as  it 
is  now.  All  along  the  way  the  hedges  of 
clipped  oak  and  nut  trees  and  glowing  maple 
are  garlanded  by  travellers'  joy  in  profuse 
abundance,  by  triumphant  sprays  of  blackberry 
with  red  and  purple  fruit ;  ivy  creeps  in  and 
out,  and  convolvulus  is  turning  to  gold.  The 
autumn  tints  glow  in  harmony,  every  now  and 
then  some  shrill  note  of  colour  strikes  beyond 
the  rest.  Cattle  are  grazing  in  the  fertile 
fields,  among  sturdy  apple  trees  studded  with 
crimson  birds  fly  in  autumnal  flights ;  we  pass 
pretty  chateaus  with  their  trim  gardens,  odd 
little  wayside  dwellings,  fine  old  timbered  farms 
with  great  barns  and  open  yards.  M.  has 
been  sketching  one  of  these  all  day,  and  the 
rest  of  us — N.,  the  musician,  in  her  straw  hat, 
and  P.  M.  and  A.  M. — have  driven  up  to  bring 
the  artist  away.  She  is  in  no  haste  to  leave  ; 
she  loves  her  work;  she  is  painting  the  old 
barns;  the  cattle  are  in  the  fields.     She  has 


A   PEASANT   WOMAN'S   SONG     115 

been  hospitably  received  by  the  owners  of  the 
farm;  it  is  called  La  Ferme  de  Carabas.  A 
pretty  young  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms 
is  standing  by  watching  as  M.  packs  up  her 
implements  ;  the  old  farmer's  wife  comes  and 
goes  from  the  open  doorway  of  the  house.  "  I 
wish  you  would  sing  to  these  ladies  before 
they  leave,"  says  M.,  looking  up  from  her  port- 
folio at  the  young  mother.  "  Yes,  I  will  sing 
if  the  ladies  would  like  it,"  says  the  girl,  and 
she  sits  down  on  a  bench  by  the  doorway, 
tucking  the  child  conveniently  upon  her  knee 
and  motioning  to  us  to  sit  beside  her.  Then 
she  begins  in  a  sweet  shrill  tone  with  a  touch- 
ing cadence  in  it ;  the  baby  tries  to  sing  too 
and  struggles  ;  the  mother  pays  no  heed  but 
goes  on  with  her  song.  There  is  something 
dramatic  and  pathetic  too  in  her  rendering,  a 
French  quality  very  unmistakable.  The  grand- 
mother who  has  come  up  carries  the  child  off 
and  the  song  goes  on.  The  ballad  is  very 
long,  very  sad,  about  a  young  man  who  dies 
on  the  scaffold  and  gives  his  life  for  her  he 
loves.  Only  two  days  ago  we  were  in  England, 
where  the  farmers'  wives  are  silent  for  the  most 
part.  It  is  an  odd  experience  to  be  sitting 
here  listening  as  a  matter  of  course  to  the 
sweet  monotonous  plaint  which  seems  still 
sounding  in  our  ears  as  we  drive  down  the  hill 
to  our  lodging  by  the  sea. 


n6       IN    A    FRENCH    VILLAGE 

Sunday. — Hearing  strains  of  military  music 
I  went  out  upon  my  balcony  this  morning  and 
saw  other  people  also  looking  out  from  balconies 
and  doorways  and  terraces,  gazing  up  the  street 
in  the  direction  of  the  sounds.  At  the  same 
time  prettily  dressed  ladies  in  white  dresses 
and  bright  colours,  whole  families — fathers, 
mothers,  children,  babes  in  perambulators- — all 
in  their  Sunday  best,  were  streaming  towards 
the  sea.  The  music  came  from  the  hill-top  ; 
none  sounded  from  the  blue  waters,  in  dead 
calm,  but  flashing  with  their  thousand  lights. 
Havre  de  Grace  across  the  great  bay  seemed 
strangely  near,  so  did  the  long  line  of  cliffs  all 
delicately  painted  and  stretching  by  Trouville 
and  Deauville  and  all  the  other  "  villes  "  which 
lead  to  our  little  Villers-sur-Mer. 

Our  hotel  is  in  a  pleasant  street  leading  to 
the  bay,  while  at  the  other  end  of  it  the  road 
brings  you  to  the  church  of  St.  Martin,  whence 
so  many  chimes  come  all  day  long,  calling  to 
prayer  or  marking  the  passing  hours — seven- 
teen o'clock,  eighteen  o'clock,  as  time  goes 
here.  Our  hostess,  the  landlady  of  the  Hotel 
de  Paris,  was  standing  in  the  doorway  as  we 
came  out,  and  when  asked  what  was  happening 
she  said  it  was  a  service  in  the  church  in 
memory  of  those  who  had  died  for  their  country. 
"  Had  we  not  seen  the  monument  in  the  Place 
de  l'Eglise  ?     Very  surely  we  ought  to  go," 


A   CELEBRATION  117 

And  accordingly  we  started,  two  of  us — say 
A.  M.  and  P.  M.  When  we  reached  the  Place 
other  people  already  were  waiting  in  the 
sunshine,  and  N.  and  M.,  our  companions, 
among  them. 

There  are  trees  and  pleasant  shadows  in 
the  Place  de  l'Eglise,  and  benches  where 
women  are  resting,  and  children  are  at  play. 
In  the  centre  of  the  square  stands  a  monument 
carved  with  an  inscription  of  grateful  remem- 
brance, and  with  the  names  of  those  belonging 
to  the  district  who  have  died  for  their  country 
— men  of  Trouville,  men  of  Cabourg,  men  of 
Azy,  men  of  Villers  and  elsewhere.  I  could 
read  of  F.  Coullas  at  Tonquin,  of  A.  Ameline, 
of  J.  Lemonnier  ;  one  could  scarcely  make  out 
the  names  for  the  wreaths  which  were  hanging 
over  them.  There  were  also  flags  and  tri- 
colour ribbons  and  those  strange  wire  garlands 
which  the  French  are  in  the  habit  of  putting 
up  in  memory  of  those  whom  they  would 
honour.  "  La  France  Reconnaissante,"  "  Sou- 
venir Francais,"  and  other  inscriptions  were 
marked  upon  them.  An  effigy  surmounts  the 
stone  slab,  and  down  below  on  a  lower  step 
stands  a  bronze  figure  which  I  admired  very 
much.  It  is  that  of  a  young  soldier  leaning 
forward  with  eager  attention  listening  for  the 
call,  courageous,  determined. 

Then  came  the  notice  of  a  banquet  and  of 

1 


n8       IN  A    FRENCH    VILLAGE 

a  dance  and  of  the  christening  of  a  boat  down 
by  the  sea. 

Meanwhile    more  and    more   people  were 
coming  up,  most  of  them  wearing  the  medal 
of  the  society;    a  certain  number  were  also 
decorated  with  long  striped  green  ribbons.     I 
asked  a  handsome,  very  erect,  old  gentleman 
who  was  wearing  one  what  it  represented.     "It 
is  the  ribbon  wThich  we  all  wear  who  fought  in 
the  war  of  'jo"  said  he,  looking  a  little  sur- 
prised ;  "  the  war  with  Germany."     Presently 
I  saw  an  elderly  lady  wearing  the  same  decora- 
tion pinned  on  her  black  dress;  she  had  served 
in  an  ambulance  I  was  told.      Then  at  last 
Mass  was  over ;  the  great  doors  were  flung 
open,  the  peasant  people  came  out,  the  towns- 
folk, the  visitors  in  their  festive  clothes.     One 
ancient   couple  of  peasants  touched  me  as  I 
saw  them  tottering  out  arm  in  arm  through 
the  crowd  in  their  old-fashioned  country  dress 
with  sad  eager  faces ;  no  need  to  be  told  what 
a  personal  feeling  was  theirs.     Meanwhile  more 
soldiers  from  outside  had  come  marching  up,  a 
white-haired  drummer  was  playing  the  drum 
in  a  spirited  fashion  ;  the  band  was  very  old 
though  the  privates  seemed  mere  boys.     Then 
issued  a  fresh  procession  from  the  interior  of 
the    church    itself — more    veterans — and    the 
choir  in  red  and  the  priests  in  their  berrettas 
and  surplices,  followed  by  the  vicar  in  his  lace 


A  SALE  u9 

vestments,  while  the  cross  was  carried  high 
and  the  flags  followed  and  the  drum  struck  up 
loudly,  and  the  whole  company  marched  down 
the  hill  to  their  banquet.  There  was  some- 
thing strangely  moving  in  this  assemblage 
come  to  do  such  cheerful  honour  to  those  whose 
memory  was  still  present.  Some  soldierly- 
looking  Englishmen  were  standing  by,  who 
took  off  their  hats  till  the  procession  had 
passed. 

In  the  afternoon,  coming  back  from  our 
Sunday  drive,  we  found  another  assemblage 
in  our  street  standing  in  front  of  an  old 
furniture  shop  which  we  often  had  looked  into 
as  we  passed.  "  Vente  a  TEnchere "  was 
written  up  on  a  board,  and  every  one  was 
assembling.  Certainly  the  most  irresistible  of 
auctioneers  in  a  straw  hat  was  dispensing  china 
ornaments,  bonbonnieres,  Normandy  crosses, 
Titians,  and  Rembrandts.  A  gentleman  M. 
met  afterwards  had  bought  one  of  each,  he  told 
her.  The  company  stood  around,  many  were 
seated  on  chairs,  making  an  afternoon  of  it,  and 
the  pretty  shabby  gimcracks  were  passed  from 
hand  to  hand.  "  Only  ten  francs  for  the 
charming  little  object,"  says  the  salesman  ; 
"I  am  sure  that  madame  there  will  give  four- 
teen for  it ;  at  twenty  it  is  a  bargain.  You 
take  it,  sir.  Thank  you."  And  as  the  enter- 
prising purchaser  leans  forward  to  receive  his 


120      IN    A   FRENCH   VILLAGE 

prize  he  drops  it  with  a  crash  upon  the 
pavement.  The  whole  company  bursts  out 
laughing,  including  the  victim. 

But  at  this  moment  suddenly  everybody 
stands  up  ;  the  auctioneer  takes  off  his  straw 
hat,  all  the  rest  uncover,  and  again  the  choir 
boys  in  red  and  the  tall  cross,  and  the  flags  and 
the  priests  in  their  order,  and  M.  le  Vicaire, 
come  up  from  the  seashore,  and  our  little 
assemblage  makes  way  for  them.  They  have 
been  christening  the  boat  and  blessing  it  before 
it  starts  on  its  long  journeys,  and  they  are  now 
passing  on  to  the  church  for  vespers.  Then 
immediately  our  friend  the  auctioneer  resumes 
his  spirited  monologue,  and  as  we  came  away  I 
could  see  the  old  owner  of  the  shop,  doubled 
up  by  age,  anxiously  watching  from  his  door- 
way. We  went  down  to  look  at  the  sea  ;  the 
people  were  crowding  on  the  jetty  and  the 
steps,  the  newly  christened  boat  moored  high 
up  on  the  sands  decorated  with  its  flags  and 
with  flowers ;  the  crowds,  mostly  country 
people  who  had  come  from  their  distant 
villages  by  long  hilly  roads  and  green  lanes, 
stood  admiring.  Some  laughing  boys  and 
girls,  also  trimmed  up  with  tricolour  ribbons, 
went  about  in  couples  hand  in  hand  shyly 
collecting  for  the  czuvre  of  the  day.  Then  the 
carts  and  chars-a-banc  began  to  drive  away 
across  the  hills;    the  sky  turns  to  dull  gold, 


WAR  AND    PEACE  121 

while  a  noble  clouded  storm  comes  rolling  up 
from  the  west. 

This  was  written  in  August,  191 3.  Was  it 
some  presentiment  which  so  impressed  us  as 
we  stood  by  during  the  village-gathering,  of 
the  far  more  terrible  war  which  was  to  over- 
shadow the  old  one  ? 

Lady  Ritchie  was  at  Freshwater  when  she 
added  these  words,  the  last  she  ever  wrote  for 
publication.  She  had  just  witnessed  another 
village-gathering  in  the  little  grey  church  held 
immediately  on  the  news  of  the  signing  of  the 
Armistice.  The  following  letter  from  J.  G.  R., 
telling  of  the  great  day  in  London,  she  wished 
printed  as  a  fitting  conclusion. 

7.  G.  R.  to  A.  I.  R. 

November  12,  1918. 

When  the  news  came,  it  was  choking  was 
it  not  ?  I  saw  the  Times  letter  with  the  most 
apposite  quotation  from  your  father  about  the 
Stuarts,  which  applied  to  Wilhelm  very  nearly. 
And  so  he  has  run  away  into  Holland  !  It  is 
as  bad  as  James  II.  flying  across  the  Thames 
and  dropping  his  seal  into  the  water.  I  cannot 
help  wishing  Wilhelm  had  been  stopped  by  the 
Belgian  crowd,  as  James  was  by  the  fishermen 
on  the  coast,  and  brought  back  and  presented 
to  the  Tommies  of  the  most  forward  British 
Regiment. 


122       IN    A   FRENCH   VILLAGE 

Though  we  had  expected  the  news,  when  it 
did  come,  one  could  hardly  believe  it.  I  had 
been  prowling  about,  getting  various  accounts, 
and  was  coming  back  to  55,  when  suddenly 
the  maroons  went  off,  and  I  saw  our  door 
open  with  M.  and  P.  and  the  maids  all 
looking  as  if  they  were  stunned.  Then  I  went 
and  got  on  to  a  bus  to  go  to  Westminster 
and  see  what  was  happening.  Servants  in 
groups  at  every  door,  the  school  -  children 
assembling  with  broad  grins  in  the  play- 
grounds, everybody  rushing  to  get  out  flags, 
half  laughing,  half  crying,  people  beaming  and 
shaking  hands.  I  managed  to  get  on  the 
front  place  of  the  roof,  and  as  I  went  up 
Victoria  Street,  realised  that  I  should  see  the 
most  wonderful  sight  in  the  world.  And  indeed 
it  was.  The  people  of  London  giving  way  to 
the  first  rush  of  joy  and  wonder,  and  living 
again  and  being  themselves,  after  four  years  of 
rigorous  self-suppression.  By  the  time  we 
reached  Trafalgar  Square  we  were  fairly  stuck 
in  a  mass  of  vehicles  trying  to  pass  in  different 
directions,  and  able  to  watch  the  marvellous 
sights  on  every  side.  Down  came  a  band, 
marching  to  Buckingham  Palace,  but  one  could 
hear  nothing  but  the  big  drum  because  of  the 
roar  of  the  crowds.  It  was  a  roar  of  laughter, 
of  people  whacking  tin  plates,  shouting,  singing, 
waving  flags  at  each  other,  forming  processions, 


ARMISTICE    DAY    IN    LONDON     123 

crowding  into  every  lorry,  till  one  thought  the 
whole  world  was  mad  with  joy.  We  all  talked 
to  each  other,  as  if  we  had  been  old  friends 
for  years.  I  finally  got  down  at  Liverpool 
Street,  where  all  the  buses  stopped  as  they 
said  there  would  be  no  room  at  all  to  drive 
back.  Then  I  went  to  St.  Paul's,  packed 
every  inch  by  a  serious-minded  congregation, 
old  people,  nurses,  families  out  for  the  day  with 
their  children,  and  was  glad  to  rest  for  an  hour 
before  the  thanksgiving  service  began.  It 
seemed  as  if  all  the  people  inside  joined  with 
one  voice.  It  was  dark  and  drizzling  when  I 
came  out,  but  all  the  city  churches  were  ringing 
their  bells  like  mad,  and  one  felt  that  the  dark 
cloud  that  had  been  hanging  over  us  for  four 
years  had  been  suddenly  cleared  away,  thank 
God,  and  we  have  all  emerged,  sadder  and 
wiser. 

I  can  just  imagine  what  you  are  feeling. 
King  Albert  in  one  fortnight  having  all  Belgium 
back  again.  The  Strasburg  statue  wreathed 
in  French  colours,  after  forty-eight  years  of 
crape,  Christopher  returning  from  captivity  in 
Turkey,  these  and  a  thousand  more  ideas  are 
suggested,  and  our  A.  and  G.  and  so  many 
others. 

Yr.  most  affecte. 

J.  G.  R. 


BINNIE 


I 


"  I  don't  like  him,"  said  the  poor  lady  anxiously. 
"Not  that  he  isn't  very  clever,  and  of  course 
he  is  very  persuasive  and  very  handsome — 
don't  you  think  so  ? — but  he  has  nothing  besides 
his  curacy,  except  what  his  old  mother  allows 
him,  and  I  do  think  it  is  a  pity  that  he  is  going 
to  refuse  the  naval  chaplaincy.  It  seems  such 
a  chance,  though  the  ship  is  stationed  in  the 
West  Indies ; — my  dear  Albert  was  out  there 
for  years  and  years  before  he  ever  thought  of 
marrying,  dear  fellow ;  he  must  have  known 
how  much  I  .  .  .    " 

"  Has  Alberta  anything  of  her  own  ? "  I 
interrupted. 

"  She  has  her  pension  of  ^ioo  a  year  from 
the  Fund,  but  she  loses  that  if  she  marries,  and 
of  course  she  couldn't  go  on  board  ship,"  said 
the  anxious  mother  nervously,  trying  to  pull 
her  right-hand  glove  on  to  her  left-hand  fingers, 
"and  indeed  Mr.  Balsillie  often  tells  the  girls 
it  would  be  dishonourable  to  marry,  and  he 
feels  that  his  call  is  here  among  his  flock,  and 


AN   ANXIOUS    MOTHER        125 

not  on  board  ship  at  all.  He  wishes  to  be  a 
lifelong  friend  to  them  both,  to  Binnie  especi- 
ally, and  she  wishes  it  too  and  so  does  Dickie. 
Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  wish,  and  I  can't 
bear  to  seem  cruel  and  unkind,  and  I  thought  I 
would  come  and  talk  to  you,"  said  the  poor 
lady  in  the  crumpled  bonnet,  fixing  her  wistful 
watery  eyes  upon  me.  "  Dear  Miss  William- 
son, you  have  so  much  experience,  and  you 
must  know  so  much  about  him,  living  in  the 
same  house.  And  you  are  so  much  older  than 
I  am.  Oh,  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do,"  she 
repeated,  as  if  the  fact  of  four  or  five  years' 
seniority  endowed  one  with  omniscience  as 
well  as  with  a  few  extra  wrinkles,  and  enabled 
one  to  solve  all  the  riddles  of  life  straight  off. 
And  surely  of  all  the  riddles  of  life  none  are 
more  difficult  than  those  of  fond  parents  whose 
children  are  bent  upon  making  fools  of  them- 
selves !  Perhaps  it  is  more  difficult  for  mothers 
than  for  fathers  to  refuse  their  consent  to  hope- 
less entanglements; — men  maybe  more  inclined 
to  romance,  but  sentiment  has  an  attraction 
for  women,  against  which  all  the  experiences 
of  impecunious  life  and  threadbare  difficulties 
speak  in  vain. 

..."  She  says  I  am  breaking  her  heart 
when  I  try  to  interfere,"  Mrs.  Willoughby  went 
on.  "  I  am  sure  it  is  the  last  thing  I  should 
wish  to  do.     My  dear   Binnie  was  so  happy 


126  BINNIE 

and  sweet  until  this  horrid  friendship  began. — 
Dickie  is  almost  as  much  upset  as  Binnie  her- 
self, and  I  know  if  their  dear  father  was  alive 
he  would  entirely  disapprove  of  it  and  be  so 
much  annoyed  with  me  for  having  allowed  it 
at  all."  As  Mrs.  Willoughby  sat  there,  a  meek 
big  woman  in  her  shabby  black  gown  and  red 
Indian  scarf,  she  reminded  me  of  some  picture 
I  had  once  seen  hung  up  in  a  National  School, 
of  a  devoted  old  pelican  with  a  bleeding  breast. 

The  little  Pelicans,  Alberta  and  Cordelia, 
inappropriately  curtailed  into  Binnie  and  Dickie, 
had  been  old  pupils  of  mine.  Dickie  was  dark 
and  concentrated,  and  took,  I  suppose,  after 
her  late  father ;  Binnie  was  a  simple-minded 
creature  who  favoured  her  mother's  side  of  the 
house.  She  had  the  prettiest  fair  curls  imagin- 
able, pinned  up  in  shining  ripples  like  sunbeams 
round  her  face  with  all  the  pretty  blushes 
coming  and  going  and  the  soft  grey  appealing 
eyes. 

"  I  think  you  are  perfectly  right  to  object 
to  such  an  indefinite  engagement,"  said  I, 
adjusting  myself  to  my  character  of  impartial 
justice  and  experienced  oracle.  "  You  are  only 
doing  your  duty  as  a  wise  and  sensible  mother. 
I  like  Mr.  Balsillie  well  enough,  but  he  certainly 
ought  not  to  marry  upon  his  income,  and  he 
shouldn't  have  said  anything  at  all  about  his 
rubbishy  friendship. " 


MR.    BALSILLIE  127 

Mr.  Balsillie  was  lodging  on  the  ground 
floor  under  my  rooms  in  West  Kensington. 
He  was  a  broadset,  active  man  in  a  round 
clerical  hat,  usually  with  a  book  under  his  arm. 
He  had  a  neat  profile.  He  wore  spectacles. 
I  used  to  meet  him  when  I  was  starting  of  a 
morning  on  my  round  or  again  as  I  was  coming 
back  wearily  after  my  day's  teaching,  when  he 
was  going  off  once  more,  brisk  and  energetic, 
to  spend  an  evening  among  the  mothers  and 
grandmothers  of  the  parish.  He  was  a  forward 
young  man  I  used  to  think,  rather  too  familiar 
as  he  would  take  off  his  wideawake  with  a 
friendly  preoccupied  air  when  he  met  me.  He 
was  dignified  in  manner,  a  trifle  mysterious, 
but  not  a  bad  fellow.  He  was  what  is  called 
a  powerful  preacher.  He  used  to  begin  in  a 
low  voice,  and  suddenly  he  would  shout  at  his 
congregation  (many  of  the  ladies  were  rather 
deaf  and  they  certainly  preferred  Mr.  Balsillie 
as  a  preacher  to  Archdeacon  Meakin),  Mr. 
Balsillie  used  to  suggest  all  sorts  of  exciting 
possibilities — Pitfalls,  Unruly  Passions,  Worldly 
Ambitions;  while  he  warned  us  against  the 
Temptations  of  the  Flesh,  the  wiles  of  the 
Devil,  Drunkenness,  Infidelity.  ...  As  Mrs. 
Willoughby  said,  one  felt  quite  adventurous 
and  prepared  for  anything,  when  one  came 
away  from  one  of  his  sermons. 

All  this  time  my  poor  old  pelican  has  been 


128  BINNIE 

sitting  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  my  face  waiting 
for  a  further  oracle,  and  after  consideration  I 
produce  my  verdict. 

"  I  think  a  change  of  scene  would  be  the 
best  thing  for  Binnie,"  said  I.  "She  must  be 
influenced  by  degrees.  One  can't  do  every- 
thing all  at  once/' 

"  Oh  yes,  oh  yes.  How  wise  and  right  you 
are  ! "  cried  the  poor  lady — "  if  only  the  girls 
will  agree  to  it.  If  only  I  could  afford.  .  .  . 
Would  Margate  be  change  enough,  do  you 
think,  or  Southend  ? — there  is  such  a  nice  pier 
and  we  might  try  for  lodgings.  I  do  wish  Dickie 
could  be  persuaded  .  .  .  but  expense  is  the 
difficulty." 

Then  I  held  out  a  straw  which  Mrs. 
Willoughby  eagerly  clutched  at.  I  told  her  I 
was  going  north  to  stay  with  my  old  friend, 
Lady  Frances  Neville,  in  her  Scotch  manse, 
and  I  was  almost  sure  I  might  take  Binnie 
with  me.    I  would  write  by  that  evening's  post. 

"If  you  don't  think  Dickie  will  mind  being 
left,"  said  the  poor  soul  rather  anxiously. 

"  Of  course  she  won't,"  said  I. 

Kind  Lady  Frances  made  no  difficulty  and 
agreed  at  once  to  my  request.  But  as  for 
Binnie  she  was  as  cross  as  such  a  good  little 
creature  could  well  be.  When  we  told  her  of 
the  plan  she  looked  stony,  stormy,  grumpy,  in- 
different by  turns,  even  her  curls  seemed  to 


A   PROPOSED   VISIT  129 

lose  something  of  their  shine,  and  Dickie  wildly 
protested,  "  Oh,  mamma,  you  are  always  fuss- 
ing. We  only  want  you  to  leave  us  alone. 
Poor  Binnie,  it  is  so  hard  upon  her." 

The  whole  plan  was  almost  given  up  in 
despair,  when  to  my  surprise  and  relief  Mr. 
Balsillie,  to  whom  Mrs.  Willoughby  impulsively 
appealed  on  the  doorstep,  took  our  side. 

"  It  will  do  her  good/'  he  said  in  his  clerical 
tone.  M  My  little  friend  evidently  needs  a 
change.  I  know  Lady  Frances  Neville  and 
the  country  round  Aviemore  well — I  have 
friends  in  that  neighbourhood.  Pray  urge  Miss 
Binnie  to  go,  Mrs.  Willoughby — advise  her 
from  me,"  he  said.  There  was  something 
peculiarly  patronising  in  his  tone  and  most 
irritating,  I  thought,  but  one  had  to  be  thankful 
for  small  mercies  and  to  take  them  when  they 
came  in  one's  way.  Binnie  and  Dicky  doubtfully 
consented,  and  thus  it  happened  that  Alberta 
and  I  started  off  together  on  our  northern 
journey,  comfortably  tucked  up  in  our  two 
railway  corners  with  our  luncheon  overhead  in 
a  basket.  Mrs.  Willoughby  was  on  the  plat- 
form to  see  us  off  in  her  usual  black.  She  had 
left  the  red  scarf  at  home,  but  her  spider-like 
veil  and  her  limp  jet  trimmings,  her  shabby 
fingers  and  galoshes  seemed  to  tell  the  history 
of  this  most  unselfish,  incapable  lady.  Her 
clothes  hung  limper  than  other  people's  clothes, 


130  BINNIE 

her  ribbons  drooped  feebly,  her  watery  blue 
eyes  appealed  to  the  very  rails  for  sympathy, 
as  she  stood  struggling  with  her  emotion,  while 
Dickie  beside  her,  trim,  cross,  indignant,  stood 
looking  daggers  at  me  through  the  carriage 
window. 

I  had  influenced  Mrs.  Willoughby,  I  was 
carrying  Binnie  away,  I  was  crushing  her  heart 
under  my  foot,  to  say  nothing  of  Dickie's 
sisterly  sympathies.  Just  at  the  last  moment, 
when  the  guard  was  banging  the  doors  of  the 
carriages,  there  was  a  sudden  scuffle,  a  third 
figure  with  flying  coat-tails  holding  up  a 
clerical  hat  darted  forward  and  was  immediately 
pulled  back  again  by  the  brute  force  of  a  couple 
of  porters.  Mrs.  Willoughby  at  the  same 
moment  threw  up  both  her  hands  and  burst 
into  tears,  the  engine  gave  a  shriek,  the  train 
moved  off.  Binnie,  who  had  started  up,  not 
speaking  but  trembling  very  much,  fell  back 
in  her  seat  deadly  pale  as  the  train  slid  away. 

The  only  other  passenger  in  the  carriage 
was  a  fashionable  lady  of  a  certain  age,  with 
jingling  bracelets  and  many  accessories,  who 
came  to  my  help  and  produced  so  many 
restoratives  from  her  various  bags  and  re- 
ceptacles ;  flasks,  salts,  vinagrettes,  that  I  felt 
it  was  an  embarras  de  richesses.  Little  Binnie 
gradually  recovered  as  we  travelled  on, 
languidly  returning  the  various  objects  which 


A   JOURNEY    NORTH  131 

had  been  handed  to  her.  By  degrees  stifled 
sobs  succeeded  to  her  faintness  and  when  at 
last  she  quieted  down,  I  realised  that  my  holiday 
had  begun.  The  train  was  travelling  past 
Hatfield  and  across  the  wide  Hertfordshire 
plains.  The  country  was  looking  radiant  in  its 
autumn  robes  of  brown  and  crimson  pranked 
with  gold.  The  sun  broke  out.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  hour  were  one  sent  from  beyond  the 
skies.  What  a  contrast  was  this  delightful 
landscape  with  its  drifting  clouds,  to  the  weary 
roads  and  terraces  along  which  I  had  been 
trudging  all  through  the  summer  months !  My 
little  companion  sat  silent,  averting  her  eyes 
from  mine  when  they  chanced  to  meet,  with  a 
shy  reproachful  look.  It  was  my  unkind  con- 
duct which  caused  the  train  to  fly  so  quickly 
—my  cruel  persuasions  which  had  induced  her 
mother  to  send  her  away  so  far,  putting  all 
these  counties,  these  fields  and  palings  and 
villages,  these  church  steeples  and  cottages  and 
fruit  trees  and  hay  stacks  between  her  and  that 
well-loved  place — that  West  Kensington  road 
leading  to  the  iron  church  with  the  clanging 
bell,  whither  all  her  thoughts  were  bound. 

We  passed  from  fields  to  wolds,  from  valleys 
full  of  smoking  factories  to  streams  and  dales 
and  hedgerows  ;  we  came  to  stately  York  with 
it  minster  towers  against  the  clouds  and  its 
spreading  trees  reflected  in  the  river,  but  Binnie 


i32  BINNIE 

hardly  raised  her  head.  At  Newcastle,  where 
rocks  and  men  meet  like  flint  and  steel,  a  faint 
colour  began  to  glow  in  the  girl's  soft  cheek, 
she  seemed  interested  at  last,  and  an  exclama- 
tion broke  from  her  pretty  lips.  "  How  like  " — 
she  began,  but  the  words  died  away,  while  a 
stout  figure  in  spectacles,  in  clerical  attire,  crossed 
the  platform  carrying  a  small  portmanteau. 

"  It  is  not  Mr.  Balsillie,"  said  I  drily.  My 
patience  was  coming  to  an  end,  and  I  felt — 
Heaven  forgive  me — as  if  I  should  like  to  box 
the  poor  child's  ears.  Then  we  started  off 
again.  Towards  six  o'clock  we  came  puffing 
and  panting  into  Edinburgh,  where  the  sky  was 
crimson  and  the  lights  on  each  side  of  the 
great  rocky  defile  were  beginning  to  shine. 
As  we  slowly  proceeded,  Arthur's  Seat,  Holy- 
rood,  Scott's  monument,  began  all  in  turn  to 
oust  the  wearisome  phantom  of  the  everhaunt- 
ing  curate — Binnie  (she  was  but  nineteen) 
seemed  to  revive,  to  wake  up,  to  look  out 
of  window,  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the 
other.  We  were  bound  for  Perth,  and  still 
through  the  sunset  we  travelled  on,  across 
the  open  Firth  and  its  wondrous  bridge  where, 
what  with  the  beauty  of  Scotland  and  the 
fresh  air  from  the  ocean,  I  could  see  Binnie's 
eyes  happily  shining  once  more.  She  was 
a  provoking,  silly  little  girl,  and  had  done 
her  best  to  seem  indifferent,  but  the  joys  of 


SCOTCH    SUNSHINE  133 

travel,  the  powers  of  youth  combined  with  the 
invigorating  northern  breezes,  came  to  my  help 
and  for  the  next  few  hours  I  do  believe  the 
tiresome  Balsillie  obsession  was  exorcised. 
Alas !  that  people  can't  always  expect  to  have 
express  trains  at  their  command,  to  be  carried 
straight  away  from  their  preoccupations,  and 
whirled  from  one  historic  and  romantic  spot  to 
another ;  nor  can  they  always  have  cheerful 
and  expensive  hotels  brilliantly  lighted  up  to 
receive  them  at  the  journey's  end,  such  as  that 
one  which  was  waiting  for  us  at  Perth,  where 
we  found  our  table  ready  spread  before  us. 
Fresh  fruit,  scones  and  hospitable  Scotch 
dainties  of  every  description  were  set  out,  and 
Binnie's  appetite  certainly  returned.  She  once 
burst  out  laughing  at  nothing  at  all,  just  as  she 
used  to  do  before  Mr.  Balsillie  came  upon  the 
scene.  Nor  indeed  did  her  pleasant  humour 
desert  her  the  next  morning,  when  we  started 
again  in  the  early  sunshine. 

Italian  sunshine  may  have  its  own  special 
attributes,  Scotch  sunshine  always  seems  to 
me  to  have  a  quality  of  its  own.  It  is  Hope 
and  Joy  combined,  something  moral  as  well  as 
physical.  It  played  upon  us  all  that  day,  while 
we  travelled  from  Perth  towards  Inverness; 
along  hill-sides  of  which  the  fragrant  crests 
were  just  breaking  into  purple  bloom,  while 
the  railway  faithfully  follows  the  stream  as  it 

K 


134  BINNIE 

rushes  across  the  moors  to  the  sea.  Has  not 
Ruskin  written  of  that  peculiar  sense  of  freedom 
which  comes  to  us  from  these  spontaneous, 
unpolluted  places  ?  M  I  took  stones  for  bread," 
he  says,  speaking  of  this  very  country,  "but 
not  certainly  at  the  Devil's  bidding." 

II 

The  carriage  was  closely  packed  and  indeed 
all  along  the  way  there  were  crowds  of  holiday 
people  waiting  for  the  train.  Somewhere  about 
Blair  Athol  a  woman  got  in^with  some  children, 
and  after  setting  them  all  down  in  their  places, 
she  pulled  out  a  stocking  and  immediately  began 
to  knit.  She  was  a  decent  Scotswoman  of 
the  middle  class  and  seemed  ready  to  talk, 
being  apparently  something  of  an  oracle,  while 
the  children  sat  swinging  their  legs  and  staring, 
respectfully  taking  in  every  word  she  uttered. 
She  was  on  her  way  to  John  of  Groat's  land 
for  sea  air  for  her  little  nephews  and  nieces, 
she  told  us  all.  She  addressed  herself  first  to 
one  and  then  to  another.  An  elderly  Scotch 
couple  who  had  started  with  us  from  Perth 
received  her  confidences  with  prosaic  sympathy. 
Then  an  American  joined  in.  He  had  a  valise 
and  a  little  boy  travelling  in  neatly  buttoned 
gloves  such  as  only  little  American  boys  would 
consent  to  wear,  and  carrying  a  cane.     The 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS          135 

little  boy  was  called  Putnam,  and  every  now 
and  then  the  elder  man  would  impress  upon 
Putnam  the  importance  of  making  mental  notes 
of  the  passing  facts  and  places. 

"You  have  got  to  remember  all  this,"  said 
the  mentor,  "and  carry  it  back  to  Nashville." 
The  boy  didn't  seem  so  much  impressed  as  his 
tutor  by  the  value  of  statistics,  but  he  listened 
willingly  enough,  together  with  the  other 
children,  to  the  stories  the  old  lady  was  telling 
over  her  stocking,  concerning  John  of  Groat's 
land  and  the  seven  brothers  who  each  wanted 
to  be  first ;  so  that  their  father  had  to  build  a 
house  with  seven  doors  by  which  every  man 
entered  separately  and  took  his  place  at  the 
round  table  where  seven  places  were  set. 

"Ye  can  see  the  verra  place  where  the 
hoose  once  stood,"  she  said,  M  they  hae  built  an 
hotel  now  at  the  farthest  point  of  the  land  and 
that  point  is  whaur  we  are  bound  for.  There's 
mony  a  tale  I  could  tell  ye  o'  all  this  countryside. 
D'ye  mind  the  stories  of  the  Grants  of  Rothie- 
murchus  ? "  And  then  in  an  eerie  and  awestruck 
voice  she  told  us  of  the  phantom  Highlander 
who  wanders  the  woods  there — "  meets  you 
suddenly  and  tears  ye  an'  ye  flee,  but  stand 
up  to  him  and  he  fades  awa'.  Ye  must  aye 
stan'  up  to  him,"  said  the  story-teller,  emphati- 
cally. There  was  a  pause  after  this.  I  saw 
little  Putnam  clutch  his  cane  and  look  uneasily 


136  BINNIE 

out  of  the  carriage  window.     The  silence  was 
broken  by  the  American. 

u  Your  prospects  would  be  greatly  improved 
by  a  few  gums,  ma'rm,"  said  he.  "I  find  I 
miss  the  gums  in  this  country.  Pray,"  continued 
my  traveller  conversationally,  as  the  sun  broke 
out  upon  a  beautiful  curve  of  the  road,  "  what 
might  be  the  market  price  of  one  of  those  hills 
— that  shiny  purple  one  over  yonder  for 
instance  ?  " 

Was  he  going  to  pack  it  up  and  take  it 
back  to  America  in  his  valise  ? — I  almost  for- 
gave him  when  I  saw  Binnie  trying  to  suppress 
a  faint  giggle  which  seemed  to  me  like  some 
sign  of  her  returning  sanity.  As  for  the 
Scotchman  he  answered  gravely  without  a 
smile,  that  the  hillside,  heather  and  all,  might  be 
worth  perhaps  one  shilling  and  sixpence  to  two 
shillings  an  acre.  The  American  again  desired 
Putnam,  who  had  been  sucking  a  peppermint,  to 
note  this,  and  then  went  on  to  ask  how  many 
strawberries  were  reckoned  to  a  pound — <c  Five 
was  the  average  in  America,"  so  he  assured  us. 
The  Scotchman  said  that  in  Scotland  three  straw- 
berries to  a  pound  was  the  general  computation. 

Meanwhile,  the  woman  with  the  knitting, 
was  rambling  on  and  I  was  quite  sorry  to  part 
from  the  little  company  when  the  train  stopped 
at  Aviemore.  A  carriage  came  to  meet  us 
bringing  a  kind  note  from  our  hostess,  who  had 


SCOTLAND  137 

been  called  away  for  the  day,  but  who  promised 
to  be  back  by  dinner-time. 

"  There  is  a  cart  for  the  luggage,"  said  the 
footman.  "  Her  ladyship  hopes  you  will  not  be 
afraid  of  an  open  carriage." 

Afraid  !  My  spirits  were  so  refreshed  and 
lively  that  I  think  if  Lady  Frances  had  sent  a 
pair  of  eagles  instead  of  a  comfortable  victoria 
I  should  have  started  in  perfect  faith.  In  a  few 
minutes  we  found  ourselves  agreeably  progress- 
ing across  the  countryside  into  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  of  landscape.  We  came  to 
the  house  at  last  after  crossing  a  bridge  and  a 
rushing  river.  It  was  a  lonely  white  house  on 
the  slope  of  a  hill  in  sight  of  the  range  of  the 
Cairngorm  Mountains  and  overlooking  the 
Spey  and  the  Durie,  those  eager  streams. 
Woods  spread  to  the  east.  In  a  clearing, 
where  the  trees  had  been  cut  down,  stood  a  few 
sheds  and  low  cottages  round  the  church  and 
the  school  and  a  blacksmith's  forge,  where  from 
early  morning  to  late  at  night  tall  dark  men 
with  shaggy  heads  clinked  and  clanked  horse- 
shoes and  where  all  the  day  long  the  horses 
from  miles  around  seemed  to  be  waiting  their 
turn  to  be  shod. 

This  then  was  Scotland  !  These  thick  stone 
walls,  these  sturdy  windows,  these  vivid  tints. 
We  came  into  a  low  hall  with  rooms  on  either 
side  in    which    fires   were    burning    brightly. 


138  BINNIE 

There  was  a  broad  staircase  leading  to  the  floor 
above.  Several  letters  brought  in  by  the 
carriage  were  already  lying  on  the  hall-table — 
The  whole  pile  was  for  Lady  Frances,  with  the 
exception  of  one  large  envolope,  addressed  in  a 
neat  straight  hand  to  "  Miss  A.  Willoughby." 
I  recognised  the  writing,  even  without  the 
"J.  B."  in  the  corner.  Binnie  also  knew  the 
writing,  and  in  a  moment  all  the  colour  was 
gone  out  of  her  little  round  cheeks.  I  looked 
away  discreetly,  hoping  that  her  disturbing 
agitation  might  pass,  but  neither  cups  of  tea 
nor  the  pleasure  of  unpacking  and  settling  down 
nor  even  the  radiant  arrival  of  our  hostess  later 
in  the  evening  had  any  effect  on  my  little 
companion.  The  light  was  gone  again, — that 
dull,  sullen  expression,  half  sad,  half  sulky,  had 
returned  to  dim  her  pretty  face.  It  was  ex- 
asperating to  find  all  the  good  effects  of  the 
journey  undone  by  a  few  scratches  from  that 
curate's  pen.  There  she  sat  listless,  gazing  at 
the  fire. 

"  You  have  had  a  long  day — you  are  tired, 
my  dear.  Go  and  lie  down  till  dinner,"  said 
Lady  Frances  kindly,  looking  at  her. 

"Lady  Frances  is  right,"  said  I,  "a  little 
rest  will  do  you  good.  Go,  my  dear  child." 
My  words  were  kind  enough,  but  I  found 
myself  speaking  in  that  acid  tone  of  cheerful 
encouragement  by  which  people  who  are  getting 


A   KIND   HOSTESS  139 

cross  try  to  soothe  others  who  are  dull  and  who 
don't  mind  being  dull,  and  who  won't  look  up, 
and  who  don't  want  to  be  cheerful  to  please  you. 

Binnie  left  the  room,  carrying  away  her 
letter  and  her  candle  and  her  Medusa  face. 
Lady  Frances,  to  whom  I  confided  my  troubles, 
only  laughed  at  my  irritation. 

"  You  take  it  too  much  to  heart,"  she  said. 
"It  will  all  come  right,  if  you  only  leave  the 
child  alone  and  let  her  run  about  with  the 
other  young  folks.  And  now  that  I  think  of 
it,"  said  she  thoughtfully,  "  there  is  an  old 
lady  here — a  Mrs.  Balsillie  lodging  at  Mrs. 
Glass's  at  the  Loch-an-Eilean  Farm.  Miss 
Donaldson  from  the  saw-mills  was  speaking  to 
me  about  her  only  the  other  day.  Could  she 
— can  she  be  ?  We  must  see  about  this,"  said 
Lady  Frances,  wrapping  her  velvet  cloak  round 
her  slender  shoulders  more  closely. 

Lady  Frances  Neville  had  also  been  my 
pupil  in  former  days  and  we  had  many  a  mutual 
interest.  Our  talk  wandered  off  from  Binnie 
and  her  concerns  to  our  own,  as  we  sat  com- 
fortably in  our  armchairs  by  the  fire  spinning 
our  yarns.  I  remember  a  sleepy  comfort  and 
happiness,  a  general  sense  of  the  torrents  of 
the  many  moors  and  the  deer  forests  all  round 
us,  of  the  warmth  of  the  wood  fire,  of  the  kind- 
ness of  the  welcome.  After  a  time  I  found 
myself  waking   with    some   faint    sound    just 


140  BINNIE 

outside  the  house.  The  dog  barked,  a  latch 
creaked.  The  flame  on  the  hearth  leapt  up 
and  at  that  moment  the  sitting-room  door 
opened  wide  and  stooping  under  the  doorway 
appeared  a  stately  figure,  who  advanced  silent, 
awe-inspiring. 

All  the  travellers'  tales  rushed  back  into  my 
mind,  as  the  figure  of  a  gigantic  Highlander 
advanced  into  the  room.  He  seemed  some 
six  or  seven  feet  high,  dressed  in  full  Highland 
garb,  carrying  his  bonnet  in  his  hand  and  ap- 
proaching with  a  swinging  slow  step.  His 
plaid  fell  in  long  lines  from  his  shoulder  and 
his  kilt  swayed  as  he  walked.  I  saw  dirks 
and  chains  and  brooches,  all  the  indescribable 
tags  and  ornaments  of  a  Highland  dress.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  sound  of  bagpipes  filled  the  air. 
Who  was  this  ?  Was  it  the  Rothiemurchus 
apparition  already  on  the  spot  coming  to  greet 
the  new-comer  ?  I  glanced  at  the  handsome 
dark  face.  Its  benevolent  expression  reassured 
me.     Lady  Frances  exclaimed  with  pleasure  : 

"  Why,  David,  is  this  you  ?  This  is  my 
cousin,  Miss  Williamson,  Colonel  David  Hamil- 
ton. He  is  home  on  leave  and  staying  up  at 
the  Castle  with  my  uncle  and  aunt."  The 
figure  sank  into  an  armchair  of  which  the 
cushions  did  not  show  through  any  visionary 
plaid,  and  Lady  Frances  rang  the  bell  for  more 
tea  and  talked  on.  asking  in  turn  after  every 


AN    INVITATION  141 

single  member  of  an  apparently  innumerable 
family.  It  seemed  that  the  whole  clan  was 
assembled  at  the  castle,  and  in  the  neighbour- 
ing shooting-lodges,  and  in  the  houses  on  the 
estate. 

The  Colonel  presently  explained  that  he 
had  been  sent  up  by  Lady  Grantown  to  arrange 
for  some  dancing  in  the  big  hall  that  day  week 
to  which  the  neighbours  were  to  be  bidden. 

"  My  mother  wants  them  all  to  come,"  he 
said,  "the  farmers,  the  people  from  the  saw- 
mill, the  tenants  and  the  servants  as  well  as 
the  masters  and  mistresses.  Nobody  to  be 
left  out — and  would  Lady  Frances  bring  some 
music  and  come  and  help  to  play  the  reels  ? 

"  I  can  play  the  Pin  Reel,  David,"  she  said, 
"and  a  Strathspey  or  two,  and  the  Rant  of 
Rothiemurchus,"  she  added,  smiling  and  begin- 
ning to  beat  a  step  on  the  carpet  with  her 
pretty  embroidered  slipper.  "And  here  is  Miss 
Williamson,  she  is  always  to  be  depended  on." 

Ill 

All  that  phase  of  existence  into  which  we 
had  suddenly  drifted  seemed  to  me  then,  as  it 
does  now,  more  like  an  idyll  or  a  fantastic  and 
delightful  dream  than  a  commonplace  family 
gathering  in  an  old  Highland  home.  The 
various   members  came  from  London    streets 


142  BINNIE 

and  squares,  from  townlets  and  villas,  lads  and 
lassies  from  college  and  school  disporting 
under  the  golden  boughs  and  across  the  moors 
and  along  the  brawling  burns  and  waterfalls. 
The  free  sylvan  life  was  stirring  one's  very 
veins  with  that  happy  touch  of  nature  which 
makes  us  all  akin, — strangers,  and  highlanders 
in  their  homes,  or  grazing  beast  or  wayside 
weed,  breathing  in  the  same  pure  mountain 
air  and  mysteriously  linked  by  the  intangible 
sympathy  of  the  present. 

Grantown  Castle  stands  at  the  foot  of  a 
chain  of  hills  leading  to  Balmoral  by  unknown 
passes  and  deer  forests  and  within  sight  of  a 
great  rushing  stream  :  as  for  its  guests  and 
inhabitants,  who  should  attempt  to  count  their 
numbers?  Besides  the  present  inhabitants, 
out  of  the  past  rose  visionary  and  romantic 
figures,  also  making  signs  to  us.  MacGregors 
by  twos  and  threes,  Rob  Roy  himself  arriving, 
as  was  his  way,  by  the  postern  through  which 
he  used  to  come  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night  to  visit  his  old  friend,  the  Laird  of 
those  days,  and  along  with  him  came  other 
heroes  of  wild  delightful  tales  and  ballads. 
And  for  the  present ! — merry  sons  and 
daughters,  children  and  grandchildren, 
nephews  and  nieces,  all  dwelling  within  the 
ancient  walls  or  in  the  various  dependencies. 
There  were  schoolboys  and  schoolgirls  home 


A    LAKE   AND   AN    ISLAND     143 

for  the  holidays,  sailors,  hardworked  officials. 
For  a  moment  everybody  was  at  play,  dis- 
porting in  this  far-away  Highland  encampment. 
On  fine  days  I  have  seen  the  whole  patriarchal 
family  out  under  the  trees  of  the  Park.  Lord 
Grantown  in  his  library  perhaps,  Lady  Gran- 
town  in  her  dainty  coiffes  and  warm  satin 
wrap,  sitting  in  her  big  wicker  chair,  while  her 
grandsons  perched  in  the  trees  like  crows,  and 
daughters  and  daughters-in-law  sat  with  their 
children  at  their  knees.  At  other  times,  the 
clan  would  repair  by  various  ways  and  passes 
to  the  pretty  little  house  on  the  shores  of 
Loch-an-Eilean.  The  house  adjoined  an  old 
farm,  where  Mrs.  Glass,  the  farmer's  wife, 
dwelt  ready  to  bring  out  hospitable  scones  and 
teacups  for  her  lady's  guests.  It  seems  an  easy 
tenure  upon  which  to  hold  so  lovely  a  home. 
An  old  castle,  which  had  held  out  against  so 
many  onslaughts  (had  not  the  lady  of  the 
tower  herself,  in  her  lord's  absence,  driven  off 
the  Mackintosh's  fierce  attacks  ?)  still  stands 
on  the  rocky  island  in  the  centre  of  the  lake, 
tottering  a  little  after  its  many  battles  and 
storms,  its  thousand  years  or  so  of  existence. 

On  one  occasion  the  kind  young  folks,  when 
tea  was  over,  and  Mrs.  Glass  had  brought 
forth  her  last  instalment  of  girdle  cakes,  insisted 
on  hurrying  us  off  with  them  to  see  the  dungeon, 
cut  into  the  rock  on  the  island  ;  the  island,  now 


i44  BINNIE 

standing  in  the  full  light  of  the  sunset,  where 
the  trees  and  the  creepers  were  growing  and 
the  golden  berries  hanging  among  the  tangling 
branches  in  the  keep. 

We  crossed  the  lake  enclosed  in  its  purple 
fold  of  mountain.     Binnie,  who  at  my  request, 
had  put  on  her  new  white  frock  and  her  big 
shady  hat,  was  perched  in  the  bow  of  the  boat, 
a  light  aerial  figure ;  by  her  side  sat  Maggie, 
a    sweet    Highland    lassie,    grey-eyed,    quick- 
witted,   who    had    taken    Binnie    under    her 
protection.      A    General    took   the   rudder,  .a 
Colonel   was   our  oarsman ;    David  Hamilton 
made   little  of  the  load   and   conveyed   some 
dozen  of  us,  big  and  small,  with  careful  strokes 
from   one   sunny  landing  to  the  other.     The 
thousand-year-old  castle  was   reflected   in   the 
water  as  well  as  the  hundred-thousand-year- 
old    rocks  and   hills  beyond  it,   now   fragrant 
with    purple    flowers   and    clothed    with    soft 
verdure.      All    this    had    once — so   said    the 
General, — been  a   glacier  wrapped   in  eternal 
snow.     There  were  two   little  boys  on  board 
our  barge,  Charlie  and  his  friend  Davy,  from 
the  saw-mills,  nephews  of  young  Mr.  Donald- 
son.    Davy   was   a   charming  little  fellow,  at 
school  with  some  foundation  scholarship  which 
he  had  won  for  himself.     Indeed  the  boys  who 
go  out  from  these  valleys  mostly  seem  to  come 
back    in   time    clothed   in   purple    like    their 


SCRAMBLINGS  145 

native  mountains,  ornamented  with  K.C.B.'s, 
K.C.M.G.'s,  and  decorations  of  every  sort, 
Notwithstanding  his  scholarly  distinctions 
Davy  as  well  as  Charlie  still  belonged  to  the 
tribe  of  Imps,  not  the  least  attractive  of  the 
many  varieties  of  urchin.  These  two  were 
for  ever  on  the  go,  at  one  moment  dancing  on 
to  the  seat  and  leaning  over  the  side  of  the 
boat  or  suddenly  rolling  back  and  sprawling 
over  one  another  until  called  to  account  by  the 
Colonel  with  a  sternness  not  untempered  by 
sympathy.  Needless  to  say,  Davy  and  Charlie 
were  the  first  to  scramble  on  shore,  and  once 
there,  they  held  on  manfully  to  the  chain, 
pulling  and  lugging  the  heavy  boat  with  all 
their  might  and  main. 

The  Island  stood  high  above  the  water. 
We  had  to  climb  up  a  stiff  bit  of  cliff  to  a 
raised  gateway  which  led  into  a  wilderness  of 
light  and  briars.  There  was  the  wild  Barberry 
with  the  golden  fruit  the  girls  had  promised 
me,  and  scrambling  rose-bushes  starting  through 
the  masonry.  As  for  the  dungeons — they  also 
were  overgrown  by  briar  roses  and  defended 
by  a  mountain  ash — Rowan,  as  the  Scotch  call 
it,  of  which  the  berries  flashed  crimson.  The 
old  castle  itself  seemed  chiefly  held  together 
by  ivy  and  wild  clematis. 

"  Don't  touch  the  walls  more  than  you  can 
help,"  said  the  Colonel,  laughing,  as  he  made 


146  BINNIE 

his  way.  "  The  stones  are  apt  to  come  down 
with  a  crash.  The  Ivy  Tower  fell  only  last 
winter."  We  did  as  we  were  told,  and  avoided 
the  wall,  though  we  skirted  the  edge  of  the 
island,  peeping  through  the  branches  into  the 
depths  of  the  waters  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff, 
picturing  to  ourselves  the  bygone  feuds  and 
battles  that  once  raged  in  this  luxuriant  laby- 
rinth of  silence. 

It  always  seems  to  me  that  children's  spirits 
rise  in  proportion  to  the  ruins  around  them. 
All  ours  to-day  were  wild  with  fun  and  enjoy- 
ment, pursuing  one  and  another,  shouting, 
creeping  through  impossible  places. 

"Come  this  way,"  cried  Davy  madcap, 
dashing  ahead,  and  Binnie  herself  caught  the 
spirit  of  the  hour  and  raced  gaily  after  him. 

"  A  ghost  ? — of  course  there  is  a  ghost," 
said  the  Colonel  gravely  in  answer  to  my 
question  (was  he  not  a  Highlander?).  "The 
castle  has  been  standing  here  since  King 
Stephen's  time,  and  it  would  be  strange  indeed 
if  it  had  not  its  legend." 

"  I  could  only  imagine  a  very  happy 
peaceful  ghost,"  said  I,  "haunting  this  pretty 
place." 

As  I  spoke  there  came  a  cry  from  some  not 
distant  spot,  a  strange  frightened  cry  which 
startled  me.  I  looked  up.  The  Colonel  was 
already  breaking  through  the  adjoining  branches 


AN   ACCIDENT  147 

to  see  what  it  could  mean.  Voices,  exclama- 
tions broke  forth  on  every  side.  Every  one 
was  calling  out,  running  hither  and  thither. 
"  Help,  help,  oh  !  help  !  "  it  was  not  the  spirit 
of  the  lake,  it  was  Binnie's  voice  in  sad 
distress. 

The  Colonel  reappeared  looking  anxious. 
"  I  can  see  nothing,  the  branches  are  too 
thick.  The  boat,  Maggie,"  he  shouted,  running 
to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  from  which  he  could 
see  the  landing-place.  <c  Row  round  the  point." 
And  Maggie,  who  by  chance  had  gone  back 
with  Charlie  to  the  landing-step  understood  in 
a  moment,  and  she  and  Charlie  between  them 
got  the  boat  off  and  were  coming  round  the 
point.  These  two  children  settled  down  to 
their  work  as  if  they  were  experienced  water- 
men, and  meanwhile  the  Colonel  slid  over  the 
side  of  the  terrace  and  clinging,  limpet  fashion, 
advanced  from  rock  to  rock  in  the  direction  of 
the  cry.  When  the  cliff  became  too  steep  for 
progress,  he  boldly  splashed  into  the  water, 
kilt,  dirk,  tags  and  all,  stepping  carefully  on 
the  submerged  rock  round  the  foot  of  the 
island  and  holding  by  the  crags  and  roots  of 
overhanging  branches.  Then  we  heard  a 
tremendous  splash.  I  could  see  the  rest  of 
the  party  who  had  remained  on  the  opposite 
shore  running  down  to  the  water's  edge.  I 
myself  could  see  nothing  else  for  the  hanging 


i48  BINNIE 

branches.  All  this  may  have  taken  some 
sixty  seconds.  To  me  it  seemed  more  like  an 
hour  than  a  minute.  I  did  not  know  what 
had  happened  but  I  heard  the  Colonel  calling, 
"  Well  done.    I'll  get  you  off  directly,  hold  on." 

This  is  what  had  happened, — so  I  heard 
afterwards  from  a  dozen  different  people.  A 
portion  of  the  masonry  had  given  way  and 
Binnie  and  Davy  were  only  kept  from  falling 
by  the  branches  of  an  ash-tree  to  which  they 
were  clinging.  The  boy  was  safe  enough,  but 
Binnie,  frightened  and  exhausted,  could  hardly 
hold  on.  Then  the  Colonel  came  to  her  help, 
rising  like  a  dripping  sea-god  from  the  waters 
of  the  lake.  He  climbed  by  the  rocks  into  the 
tree  and  hauled  her  up  by  sheer  strength  into 
a  position  where  she  could  help  herself  just  at 
the  very  moment  when  Maggie,  a  second  Lady 
of  the  Lake,  shot  up  with  her  boat,  somewhat 
wildly  rounding  the  point.  The  unfeeling 
Davy,  seeing  relief  at  hand,  gave  a  cock-like 
crow  of  triumph  and  kicked  his  legs. 

"  How  are  you  now  ?  "  said  the  Colonel  to 
Binnie.  u  Can  you  manage  to  slide  down  ?  I 
will  help  you." 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,"  she  said,  with  a 
hysterical  gasp. 

"  I  may  have  saved  you  a  ducking,"  said 
the  heartless  Colonel. 

Binnie  never  quite  knew  how  she  got  out 


A    RESCUE  149 

of  that  tree.  Her  descent  was  ignominious, 
but  the  Colonel  superintended  her  helpless  slides 
with  cheerful  and  unconcerned  politeness,  as 
though  he  were  guiding  an  awkward  partner 
through  a  country-dance.  Davy  gave  a  flying 
leap  which  very  nearly  overturned  the  boat. 
Binnie's  shoes  were  wet  and  her  pretty  white 
dress  was  draggled  as  the  Colonel  lifted  her 
over  from  the  shore,  and  then  quickly  getting 
in  himself,  without  so  much  as  shaking  the 
water  off  his  plaid,  he  took  the  sculls  and  began 
to  row  as  if  nothing  whatever  had  happened. 

When  Binnie  was  landed,  crumpled,  damp 
and  exhausted,  I  could  see  Lady  Grantown 
appear  from  the  tea-house  with  her  large  white 
parasol  and  many  Indian  shawls  on  her  arm, 
followed  by  Mrs.  Glass  with  jugs  and  re- 
storatives. The  barge  recrossed  the  lake  for 
those  of  us  who  were  waiting  on  the  shore  of 
the  Island,  and  as  we  crossed  the  lake  I  could 
watch  the  distant  figures  and  felt  altogether 
reassured  about  my  little  charge.  The  Colonel 
and  the  rest  of  them  appeared  to  be  escorting 
the  small  heroine  of  the  hour  to  the  gate  of 
the  garden  in  front  of  the  farmhouse.  Then  the 
farm-door  opened.  A  little  dumpy  figure 
appeared  with  extended  hands  and  finally 
Binnie  vanished  into  the  kitchen  of  the  farm, 
followed  by  Lady  Grantown  and  one  or  two 
more. 

L 


ISO  B1NNIE 

Mrs.  Glass  was  there  to  receive  us  when  we 
landed,  helping  to  pull  in  the  boat. 

"  Mrs.  Balsillie,  she  that  lodges  wi'  me," 
said  Mrs.  Glass,  "  sent  a  message.  There  was 
a  fire  and  a  quiet  room  for  the  young  leddy  to 
rest  in,  and  so  my  leddy  saw  her  up  at  once 
and  my  leddy  begged  you  to  go  straight  home 
with  Lady  Frances  and  she  will  bring  the  rest 
of  the  party." 

Lady  Grantown  is  a  beneficent  autocrat, 
directing  all  the  doings  for  miles  round  about 
the  Castle,  implicitly  obeyed  by  the  devoted 
and  kindly  clan.  I  would  fain  have  objected 
to  having  Binnie  at  the  farm,  as  the  name  of 
Balsillie  was  alarming  to  me.  But  it  was  too 
late,  though  I  could  see  Lady  Frances  smiling 
at  my  agitation.  Among  the  other  people  still 
standing  by  was  Mr.  Donaldson  from  the  saw- 
pit,  who  seemed  extraordinarily  concerned  by 
the  accident. 

"  Those  lads  are  for  ever  in  mischief/'  said  he. 
"  I  shall  speak  to  Master  Davy  on  our  return." 

"  There's  very  little  harm  done,"  said  Lady 
Frances  in  her  pretty  peremptory  way.  "  I 
know  you  don't  mind  a  walk,  Mr.  Donaldson. 
I  shall  carry  you  off  at  once,  Miss  Williamson, 
and  send  the  carriage  back  for  the  others ;  my 
aunt  has  her  brougham,  I  know,  waiting  in  the 
yard.  ...  I  suppose  David  is  drying  himself 
by  Mrs.  Glass's  fire." 


MRS.    BALSILLIE  151 

David  was  not  the  Colonel  but  little  Davy 
Donaldson.  The  Colonel  appeared  suddenly  as 
we  were  starting  in  the  victoria.  His  little 
niece,  Maggie,  was  following  him. 

"  Here  is  Maggie  wants  to  come  with  you, 
Frances,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  walk  and  get  dry." 
Then  he  added,  "  I  must  say  I  never  have 
seen  a  sillier  performance  than  that  one  just 
now  of  Miss  Willoughby's.  She  could  easily 
have  got  off,  but  she  only  screamed  and  so 
bewildered  poor  Davy  that  he  did  not  attempt 
to  move.  I  told  him  he  had  behaved  like  a 
duffer,  that  he  should  have  scrambled  down  at 
once,  and  then  he  explained  that  he  didn't  like 
to  leave  her,  she  was  in  such  a  state  of  fright." 


IV 

Mrs.  Balsillie's  advent  was  anxiously  con- 
sidered by  me.  It  was  certainly  not  a  sympa- 
thetic part  which  had  been  forced  on  me  by 
circumstances.  Anybody  enjoys  helping  people 
to  be  happy ;  but  very  few  people  care  for 
throwing  cold  water  upon  the  natural  aspira- 
tions of  youth,  its  emotions  and  ready  affinity. 
One  would  as  soon  wish  to  prevent  the  birds 
from  building  their  nests.  If  I  had  thought 
Binnies  curate  in  earnest,  I  might  have  taken 
a  very  different  course,  but  when  a  man  says 
that  marriage  is  out  of  the  question  and  offers 


i52  BINxNIE 

lifelong  friendship,  and  when  a  young  woman 
is  nineteen  and  accepts  the  bargain  enthusi- 
astically, surely  it  is  right  for  the  elders  to 
interfere.  There  may  be  exceptional  cases, 
but,  as  a  rule,  it  seems  to  me  that  these  Friend- 
ships with  big  "F's  "  are  miserable  makeshifts 
and  only  deserve  to  be  put  into  the  wastepaper 
basket,  but  then  this  may  be  only  an  old  maid's 
cut-and-dried  conclusions. 

I  could  not  quite  tell  what  was  passing  in 
Binnie's  own  mind  for  the  next  few  days.  She 
was  certainly  changed  after  her  little  adventure. 
She  went  through  so  many  varying  moods  that 
it  would  be  impossible  for  anything  but  an 
agile  young  chamois  to  follow  them.  To  the 
reproachful  phase  would  succeed  the  grateful 
or  the  ecstatic,  the  appealing,  the  sulky  again. 
I  asked  her  about  her  interview  with  Mrs. 
Balsillie,  but  she  wTould  not  tell  me  much  or 
perhaps  she  could  not.  After  all  the  gift  of 
description  is  a  special  one,  and  it  is  not  in 
everybody's  power  to  recount  events  as  they 
occur. 

"Mrs.  Balsillie  was  very  kind — very  kind 
indeed  "  (full  stop).  "  Had  she  ever  heard  of 
you  ?  "  (note  of  interrogation  on  my  part).  "  Of 
course  she  had,"  said  Binnie  (a  second  full 
stop).     "  She  is  Mr.  Balsillie's  mother." 

The  girl  was  standing  by  the  lavender  bush 
in   Lady   Frances'   pretty   old    garden    which 


IN    A    HIGHLAND   GARDEN     153 

slopes  uphill  from  the  back  of  the  house.  It  is 
a  sweet  old  Scotch  garden  whose  lichen-grown 
walls  are  hung  with  grey  pear-trees,  whose 
borders  straggle  with  bushy  autumn  plants 
and  violet  tufts,  reflecting  the  colours  of 
the  hills  beyond.  Taciturnity  and  blue  eyes 
harmonised  with  the  silence,  and  I  could  not 
but  admire  Binnie  as  she  stood  there  holding 
her  broad  hat  in  one  hand.  She  wore  a  pretty 
blue  cotton  frock  and  a  white  kerchief  pinned 
with  a  heart,  an  old-fashioned  pearl  heart,  such 
as  our  mothers  and  Grandmothers  all  affected. 

11  Where  did  you  get  that  pretty  little  orna- 
ment ?"  I  said,  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was 
the  wearer  I  was  admiring. 

"  Mrs.  Balsillie  gave  it  to  me  yesterday," 
said  Binnie,  turning  crimson  and  breaking  off  a 
lavender  head.  "  Do  you  like  it  ?  I  think  it  is 
a  horrid  little  thing,"  she  cried,  losing  her  head. 
"  I  didn't  want  to  take  it,  but  she  would  have 
it.  She  began  to  tremble  all  over  when  I 
refused." 

Then  I  saw  that  Binnie  herself  was  trem- 
bling as  she  spoke. 

"  I  suppose  Mrs.  Balsillie  wishes  for  you  as 
a  daughter,"  I  said,  taking  the  child's  hand. 

"She  can't  bear  his  going  away,"  Binnie 
answered  incoherently  and  looking  aside,  "she 
says  she  knows  it  will  all  come  right,  if  only  I 
will  wait.     He  is  the  best  of  sons  and  she  will 


154  BINNIE 

try  to  increase  his  allowance — but,  oh  dear," 
said  the  girl,  pulling  her  hand  away,  "I  am  sure 
she  can't  afford  it.  It  is  such  a  dull,  damp, 
little  lodging.  No  wonder  she  is  rheumatic, 
and  Mr.  Balsillie  is  quite  right  to  say  he  won't 
let  her   send  him   any  more   money.     I  only 

wonder  he  ever "     Binnie   stopped   short 

and  turned  crimson  once  more. 

"  It  makes  a  great  difference  if  he  has 
spoken  openly  to  his  mother,"  I  said  gravely, 
"  if  he  has  told  her  he  is  in  earnest." 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  has  said  or  what  he 
hasn't,"  Binnie  flung  out  angrily.  "  Mrs. 
Balsillie  cried  and  kissed  me  and  told  me  that 
I  must  help  her  to  keep  him  at  home.  That 
she  longed  to  see  him  happily  married.  And  I 
couldn't  answer  a  single  word,  and  I  do  wish 
people  would  leave  one  alone,"  cried  the  girl. 
"  Real  gentlemen  don't  talk  and  talk  about  one 
and  make  one  feel  wretched,  not  even  if  they 
have  saved  one's  life." 

I,  with  my  own  guilty  conscience,  could  not 
attempt  to  follow  what  wild  disenchantments 
and  new  comparisons  were  floating  through 
Binnie's  little  brain. 

We  were  a  timid  race  in  my  day  and  did 
not  formulate  ideas  with  the  audacity  of  the 
young  people  of  the  present,  but  I  confess  I 
was  glad  that  we  were  interrupted  at  that 
minute  before   I   had    said    anything    I    might 


A   CHANGE   OF   MIND  155 

have  regretted.  A  servant  in  livery  came  from 
the  house  towards  us.  u  Her  Ladyship  says, 
*  will  you  please  come  to  the  drawing-room. 
Lady  Grantown  and  Mrs.  Balsillie  for  Miss 
Willoughby.' " 

Binnie  looked  at  me  and  began  shaking  her 
curls  in  great  agitation — "  No,  no,  no.  I  don't 
want  to  see  her,"  and  before  I  could  say  a  single 
word  she  was  off,  darting  along  the  path  and 
out  by  the  wicket-gate.  I  saw  a  flash  of  blue 
and  she  was  gone.  She  had  vanished  beyond 
the  trees,  while  I  went  upstairs  with  such  polite 
fictions  on  my  lips  as  are  in  use  in  civilised 
society. 

I  found  the  three  ladies  at  tea.  Lady 
Grantown  wrapped  in  her  beautiful  Indian 
shawl,  Lady  Frances  in  serge  prepared  for  a 
walk,  and  Mrs.  Balsillie  in  a  black  dress  and 
poke  bonnet.  She  was  a  kind,  stout,  apple- 
cheeked  old  lady,  who  had  evidently  passed 
her  time  in  the  by-ways  of  life.  She  was 
looking  at  the  door  and  anxiously  inquiring 
after  my  young  friend  and  hoping  she  was  none 
the  worse  for  her  fright. 

"You  were  very  kind,  everybody  is  very 
kind.1,  Mr.  Donaldson  also  came  up  to  inquire," 
said  I.     "  Binnie  is  perfectly  recovered." 

u  I  think  your  young  friend  is  very  charm- 
ing," Mrs.  Balsillie  gravely  answered.  "  Miss 
Willoughby  is  a  flower,  as  I  said  to  Mrs.  Glass, 


156  BINNIE 

Just  one  in  a  thousand ;  and  so  indeed  my  son 
John  told  me  when  I  asked  him  about  her,  and 
he  is  very  hard  to  please,  as  I  know  full  well." 

"  Well,  my  dear  Mrs.  Balsillie,  there  are 
many  thousands  of  flowers  in  London  for 
fastidious  young  gentlemen  to  choose  from," 
said  Lady  Grantown.  She  spoke  kindly, 
though  her  eyes  looked  amused  and  sparkling. 

"  I  never  was  there,  my  lady,"  said  Mrs. 
Balsillie.  "  I  never  went  further  south  than 
Edinburgh." 

After  a  short  time  Mrs.  Balsillie  took  her 
leave. 

V 

The  night  of  the  ball  arrived  at  last.  Binnie 
had  greatly  cheered  up  in  the  last  two  days, 
and  the  more  she  bloomed  and  smiled,  the 
more  our  neighbour,  Mr.  Donaldson,  seemed 
to  think  it  necessary  to  come  up  to  enquire 
after  her  health.  She  was  for  ever  practising 
her  reel  step  and  Davy  used  to  run  up  from 
the  saw-mills  to  teach  her.  On  the  evening 
before  the  ball,  the  boy  brought  her  a  pretty 
bunch  of  white  heather.  He  seemed  shy  about 
it  and  mysterious. 

u  Where  did  you  gather  it,  Davy  ?  "  said 
Lady  Frances.  But  Davy  only  grinned  and 
shook  his  head,  and  Lady  Frances  asked  no 
more. 


AT    THE   CASTLE  157 

We  started  for  the  castle  betimes,  for  we 
were  to  dine  in  the  big  dining-room  before  the 
dance  began.  When  we  came  up  the  sweep  to 
the  front  door  we  found  the  Colonel  and  little 
Charlie  who  were  looking  out  for  us  and  waved 
their  caps  as  we  passed.  The  fire  in  the  hall 
was  ablaze,  lighting  up  the  antlers,  the  spear- 
heads and  the  tiger  skins  with  which  the  hall 
was  decorated.  There  were  stuffed  owls  also 
looking  alive  on  their  perches  and  gulls  with 
outstretched  wings  :  each  commemorating  its 
own  story  of  past  adventure. 

The  Colonel  welcomed  us  cordially.  "  They 
are  all  expecting  you,"  he  said.  "  Charlie  and 
I  have  been  riding  over  to  Aviemore  and  we 
have  brought  back  the  letters.  Here  are  some 
for  you,  Miss  Williamson,"  he  said,  as  he 
distributed  the  parcel.  Lady  Frances  went  off 
with  hers,  and  the  girls  also  disappeared  their 
different  ways  and,  finding  myself  alone  for  ten 
minutes  with  no  other  company  than  that  of  the 
ancestors  peacefully  hanging  in  the  firelight,  I 
opened  my  correspondence.  One  wavering, 
straggling  handwriting  was  familiar. 

"  Dear  Miss  Williamson,"  wrote  Mns 
Willoughbyon  her  broad  mourning  paper — she 
had  been  a  widow  for  years,  but  she  clung  to 
her  black  margin  and  seemed  to  find  some 
moral    support    from    the    funereal    emblems, 


158  BINNIE 

"  You  must  first  of  all  let  me  thank  you  deeply 
for  your  more  than  motherly  kindness  to  my 
poor  child.  My  heart  bleeds  for  her."  (Hearing 
a  burst  of  laughter  on  the  staircase,  I  looked 
round — it  was  only  a  little  skirmish  between  the 
girls  and  Charlie,  who  had  produced  a  banjo 
and  was  executing  some  nigger  antics  for  their 
edification.)  "  I  have  just  seen  John  Balsillie. 
He  told  me— I  can  scarcely  believe  him, — 
that  he  had  heard  from  my  Binnie— -that,  at  her 
own  wish  the  tender  friendship  between  them 
was  at  an  end.  He  begs  me  to  say  that  he 
feels  no  resentment.  His  friendship  would  still 
be  hers,  though  she  turned  against  him.  He 
says  he  would  send  his  love,  but  he  thinks  it  is 
best  not ;  nor  will  he  allow  himself  to  write. 
I  fear  he  is  somewhat  wounded  and  hurt,  though 
I  am  glad  to  say  that  he  knows  that  Binnie's 
mother  and  sister  understand  him  and  do  him 
justice.  Poor  fellow,  we  do  indeed  feel  for  him. 
He  has  accepted  the  ship's  chaplaincy.  He 
tells  me  that  he  had  determined  to  do  so,  even 
before  Binnie's  letter  arrived.  He  preached 
his  farewell  sermon  to  us  yesterday.  There 
was  scarcely  a  dry  eye  in.  the  congregation. 
The  ship  sails  in  three  weeks,  of  which  he 
intends  to  spend  at  least  one  with  his  aged 
parent,  devoting  these  precious  remaining  days 
to  her  before  he  leaves.  I  envy  you  the  chance 
of  meeting  him   again.     Poor   fellow,  how    I 


A   FOOLISH    LETTER  159 

honour  his  spirit  of  determination !  He  tells 
me  the  pay  is  far  better  than  the  salary  he  has 
been  receiving ;  that  he  can  do  much  for  his 
mother's  comfort,  though  marriage  is  out  of  the 
question.  Ah,  how  one  mourns  to  think 
of  these  young  hearts, — blighted,  innocent 
creatures  suffering  so  cruelly  for  want  of  that 
dross  we  all  despise.  Dickie  feels  it  too  deeply 
to  speak  on  the  subject.  My  tender  love  to 
my  Binnie.  Tell  her  whatever  others  may  say 
I  am  certain  she  acted  nobly  and  for  the  best. 
Ever,  dearest  Mary,  if  I  may  call  you  so,  for 
indeed  I  feel  as  if  you  were  Mary,  the  sister, 
rather  than  Miss  Williamson,  the  friend — 
M  Yours  most  affectionately  and  gratefully, 
<f  Cordelia  Willoughby." 

"  P.S. — I  asked  him  if  his  determination  was 
final,  and  if  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to 
a  long  engagement.  He  turned,  murmuring 
words  I,  alas,  could  not  catch." 

The  silly  woman  was  quite  capable  of  trying 
to  bring  the  stupid  entanglement  all  on  again, 
so  I  thought,  as  I  tore  her  foolish  epistle  into 
small  pieces,  which  I  threw  into  the  fire  ;  nor, 
did  I  feel  myself  bound  to  deliver  Mrs. 
Willoughby's  messages  to  her  heart-broken 
child,  who  was  still  busy  practising  her  reel- 
steps  with  Miss  Maggie  and  her  uncle,  the 
Colonel,    looking   very   pretty    and    attentive 


i6o  BINNIE 

as  she  pointed  her  white  toes  and  kept  her 
place  among  the  merry  group  of  boys  and  girls. 
Lady  Jane — a  daughter  of  the  house — seeing 
them  all  lining  up,  sprang  to  the  piano  and 
began  playing  reels  and  rants,  as  they  call 
them,  with  marvellous  brightness  and  accuracy, 
nor  did  she  cease  till  dinner  was  announced  by 
a  warlike  personage  with  a  moustache.  It  was 
not  till  nine  o'clock  that,  the  eating  being  over, 
the  real  business  of  the  evening  began.  The 
lights  were  brought,  the  tables  were  wheeled 
away,  the  doors  taken  off  their  hinges.  The 
servants  came  in,  followed  by  the  neighbours, 
farmers  and  craftsmen  from  their  various 
homes  in  the  adjoining  villages,  valleys  and 
mountain  passes.  The  farmers  from  the  Tay 
farm,  Mr.  Donaldson  in  his  kilt,  the  stable-boy 
in  a  smart  volunteer  uniform  ;  the  gardeners 
and  gamekeeper  from  the  moors  and  the  loch 
hard  by.  I  watched  them  as  they  entered  the 
big  room,  a  stalwart,  self-respecting  set  of  men, 
making  their  dignified  bows  to  her  Ladyship 
and  to  the  ladies  of  the  castle  and  immediately 
falling  to  work  and  beginning  to  dance  with  an 
active  gravity,  which  did  not  intermit  nor  relax 
till  the  evening  was  far  advanced.  Their  wives 
and  daughters  followed  in  their  steps,  pretty 
fair-haired  women  for  the  most  part,  doing 
credit  to  their  mountain  homes.  Mrs.  Glass 
was  there. 


A   BALL  161 

11 1  tried  to  persuade  Mrs.  Balsillie  to 
come  wi'  us,  milady,  but  she  went  off  into 
such  a  fit  of  laughing  at  the  suggestion  I 
thought  she  would  ha  dropped,  and  she  just 
stayed  behind  to  keep  the  home — and  indeed 
she  expected  company.  Mr.  Glass  has  gone 
to  meet  the  nine  o'clock  train  at  the  station." 

Mr.  Donaldson  handed  out  Lady  Grantown 
to  open  the  ball,  then  the  volunteer  marched 
up  in  his  turn  in  his  grand  red  tartan  kilt  and 
politely  invited  Miss  Maggie  to  join  in  the  set. 
It  was  a  reel  which  could  be  danced  in  couples 
or  on  opposite  sides. 

"  Will  ye  hae  it  grappit  or  lous,  Miss 
Maggie  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Oh,  lous  by  all  means,"  said  Miss  Maggie 
with  a  droll  twinkle,  and  away  they  go  stepping, 
pousetting  and  jigging  and  bobbing  opposite 
to  one  another.  It  was  a  delightful  sight  to 
behold. 

The  Colonel  had  been  dancing  writh  great 
dignity  and  spirit  for  the  last  quarter  of  an 
hour  at  the  rate  of  some  fifty  or  sixty  steps 
a  minute.  His  magnificent  dress  set  off  his 
stately  figure  ;  his  kilt  was  of  the  well-known 
tartan  of  the  great  clan  to  which  he  belonged. 
By  day  it  was  green,  but  of  an  evening  it 
turned  to  red  with  crisscross  of  various  colours 
and  with  lines  of  white  unintelligible  to  southern 
eyes,    but   not   without   their   meaning.      You 


i62  BINNIE 

can  tell  all  their  history  by  the  colour  of  the 
plaids. 

On  his  shoulder  the  Colonel  wore  a  cairn- 
gorm in  a  silver  setting,  which  was  an  heirloom. 
He  also  had  big  silver  shining  buttons  and 
glittering  ornaments  and  every  step  he  took 
seemed  an  event  to  me.  He  advanced  with 
an  air  of  romantic  ease,  which  must  have 
carried  conviction  to  the  most  sceptical. 

It  was  not  without  some  pardonable  elation 
that  I  discovered  that  the  partner  dancing  with 
the  stately  figure  was  no  other  than  my  own 
little  Alberta  in  her  white  muslin  skirt  and 
white  satin  ribbons.  She  also  wore  a  bunch 
of  white  heather  in  her  bodice.  She  blushed 
with  pleasure,  looking  very  sweet  and  modest 
all  the  time.  The  musician,  Lady  Jane,  played 
on  and  on  with  endless  spirit  and  courage.  I 
had  been  sitting  alone  for  a  few  minutes  and 
enjoying  myself  in  my  own  way,  when  I  chanced 
to  look  up  at  the  doorway  at  the  further  end  of 
the  hall,  and  whom  should  I  recognise,  of  all 
unexpected  guests,  standing  among  the  specta- 
tors, somewhat  dusty  and  without  a  wedding 
garment,  but  Mr.  Balsillie,  the  late  curate  of 
the  Medina  Row  Chapel -of- Ease,  and  beside 
him  was  Mr.  Glass  of  the  Loch-an-Eilean 
Farm. 

In  a  moment  I  realised  that  the  curate  was 
the  company  they  had  expected  and  that  he 


AN    UNINVITED   GUEST         163 

must  have  come  on  in  the  farmer's  gig.  He 
stood  staring  over  at  the  dancing  with  an 
idiotic  and  offended  simper  upon  his  handsome 
countenance.  Binnie  had  not  seen  him  yet ; 
she  was  too  busy  minding  her  steps  to  look 
about,  but  my  late  fellow-lodger  having  dis- 
covered me  in  my  corner  and  knowing  no  one 
else,  presently  came  up  to  speak  to  me,  skirting 
the  wall  so  as  to  avoid  the  dancers. 

"So  you  too  have  come  north,  Mr.  Bal- 
sillie  ?"  I  said,  not  over-graciously,  as  he  arrived. 
"You  see  we  are  all  well  employed,  and  how 
do  you  find  your  mother  ? " 

"  I  have  not  yet  seen  her,"  said  Mr.  Balsillie, 
with  an  important  air.  ' '  Farmer  Glass  proposed 
to  bring  me  straight  here.  I  did  not  like  to 
refuse.  How  delightful  these  patriarchal  gather- 
ings are,  to  which  one  can  come  uninvited  and 
sure  of  a  welcome !  What  a  merry  scene ! 
How  charming  our  little  friend  is  looking !  "  he 
continued,  following  Binnie  with  half-approving 
glances,  and  then  as  the  girl  came  up  panting 
and  breathless  after  her  set,  he  rose  and  held 
out  his  hand.  I  saw  reproach  in  his  eye 
tempered  by  forbearance,  superiority,  affability. 
Binnie  looked  a  little  scared,  stopped  short, 
shook  hands  hastily,  fluttering,  fanning  herself. 
The  light  of  the  dance  was  still  in  her  face, 
dismay  on  her  lips,  it  was  certainly  a  most 
curious  little  concatenation  of  events.     "  Mr. 


1 64  BINNIE 

Balsillie  has  looked  in  on  his  way  to  his 
mother's,"  said  I.  "You  must  be  tired  after 
your  long  journey  !  " 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  if  you  are  well  and 
enjoying  yourself,"  said  the  chaplain,  ignoring 
me  and  looking  earnestly  at  Binnie.  I  could 
see  that  he  had  never  before  thought  of  her  as 
he  was  thinking  of  her  then. 

"  Reels  are  very  delightful,"  Binnie  answered 
confusedly.  "  Every  one  has  been  so  kind  about 
teaching  me." 

"  But  you  must  not  mind  giving  up  one 
dance  for  an  old  friend,  for  the  sake  of  an  old 
friendship,"  said  Balsillie  in  his  most  irresistible 
tones.  "  I  must  have  a  few  words  now  that 
I  have  come  all  these  miles  to  see  you." 

Binnie,  tremulous,  undecided,  looked  up 
to  me.  I  looked  anxiously  round,  turning  over 
things  in  my  mind  and  trying  to  find  some 
excuse  to  get  rid  of  my  importunate  curate. 
Some  people  certainly  possess  the  gift  of 
reading  at  a  glance  the  events  which  are 
happening  round  about  them  in  the  world. 
As  I  was  still  hesitating,  a  voice  beside  us 
exclaimed — 

"  What,  Binnie  settling  down  already ! 
This  cannot  be  allowed."  There  stood  Lady 
Frances  in  a  shining  satin  gown  and  jewels 
and  falling  laces.  "  Here  is  Mr.  Donaldson, 
who  wants  to   have  the  pleasure  of  dancing 


DISCOMFITURE  165 

with  you  in  this  next  set,  and  as  she  spoke 
she  laid  one  hand  upon  the  arm  of  the  hand- 
some young  Highlander  in  his  kilt,  who  stood 
there  with  a  smiling  ready  mien.  "  Unless  you 
are  engaged  for  this  dance  by  Mr.  Balsillie. 
Am  I  right — are  you  not  Mr.  Balsillie  ? "  said 
her  ladyship,  with  a  faint  soupgon  of  fun,  for 
she  knew  that  the  chaplain's  accomplishments 
did  not  include  the  Scotch  reel.  He  gravely 
and  at  some  length  explained  to  Lady  Frances 
that  he  avoided  dancing  on  principle.  "  Not 
that  I  think  it  wrong,  far  from  it/'  he  remarked, 
with  some  unnecessary  solemnity. 

"  Quite  right,  quite  right/'  said  the  lady 
brightly.  u  I  quite  understand,  and  you  shall 
come  with  me  and  help  me  to  look  after  our 
guests  in  the  tea-room" — as  she  spoke  she 
motioned  him  to  give  her  his  arm,  and  so  led 
him  off  in  the  most  charming  and  natural  way, 
and  kept  him  fully  employed  for  the  next  half- 
hour.  Not  another  word  could  Balsillie  get 
with  Binnie,  though  he  waited  long  in  the  hope 
of  a  chance.  She  danced  away,  handed  on 
from  one  partner  to  another  by  her  ever- 
watchful  chaperone,  Lady  Frances.  It  was 
like  the  story  of  the  King's  daughter  who 
danced  on  and  on  while  they  brought  her  the 
news  of  her  father's  murder  and  her  mother's 
death.  My  heroine  was  no  King's  daughter, 
but  an  impressionable  little  girl  who  had  for  the 

M 


1 66  BINNIE 

first  time  escaped  from  the  narrow  bounds  of 
her  small  conventionalities  and  felt  her  wings 
and  flitted  away  for  ever  from  the  mystic 
glamour  of  Medina  Row.  I  could  have  laughed, 
only  that  it  was  so  unkind  to  laugh  when  I 
came  upon  John  Balsillie  some  time  later  in  the 
evening,  in  an  enclosed  background,  and  sulk- 
ing among  the  tea-pots.  I  asked  him  to  hand 
me  a  cup  filled  with  the  useful  tonic,  then  I 
asked  him  for  milk,  then  for  sugar,  then  for 
bread  and  butter.  And  as  he  held  the  plate,  a 
sudden  burst  of  music  reached  us. 

"There  she  goes,"  said  he  sarcastically, 
and  then  a  sudden  impulse  made  me  speak 
quite  frankly  to  the  poor  fellow,  for  whom  I 
was  at  last  feeling  a  little  bit  sorry. 

"When  I  brought  Binnie  away  with  me, 
she  was  not  well  or  happy,"  I  said.  "She 
seemed  quite  drooping  and  wasting  away. 
This  has  been  a  really  delightful  change  for 
her.  She  has  found  kind  friends,  natural 
interests  and — well,  I  know  you  too  are  a  kind 
friend,  and  I  will  tell  you — here  is  young  Mr. 
Donaldson  immensely  interested  in  her.  He 
has  a  house  all  ready  and  is  only  wanting  a 
mistress  for  his  home.  Lady  Frances  has  set 
her  heart  on  the  match,  and  you  must  wish  us 
well  and  forgive  me  for  confiding  in  you.  I 
wouldn't  speak  so  plainly,  but  I  know  you 
are  a  gentleman  as  well  as  a  chaplain,  and  it 


AN    ENGAGEMENT  167 

would  be  such  a  pity  if  everybody  was  dis- 
appointed." 

I  hardly  dared  look  at  him  as  I  spoke.  He 
turned  black,  crimson,  yellow  in  turn. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  he  said  with  a 
bilious  laugh.  "  Well,  good  evening,  Miss 
Williamson,  I  suppose  my  mother  will  be 
sitting  up  for  me."     He  was  gone.  .  .  . 

Two  days  passed,  and  on  the  evening  of 
the  second  day  Binnie  and  Mr.  Donaldson 
came  in  to  tell  us  their  news. 

Was  this  the  same  little  oppressed  change- 
able creature  who  had  plagued  me  so  often  ? 
I  had  an  accident  that  very  evening.  My  foot 
caught  in  a  rug  and  I  fell  heavily  as  I  was 
carrying  a  lamp  and  the  spirit  ran  over  my 
dress,  which  was  of  thin  material  and  soon 
blazed  up.  Things  would  have  gone  badly 
indeed  with  me,  if  Binnie,  who  happened  to  be 
near  by  had  not  sprung  to  my  help. — She  seized 
a  bear-skin  rug,  which  was  spread  loose  on  the 
tiled  floor  and  flung  it  over  the  smouldering 
flames,  then  helped  me  to  rise,  all  shaken  and 
startled  and  ashamed  as  I  was,  and  led  me  to 
my  room.  She  summoned  help.  Lady  Frances 
soon  came,  followed  by  maids  with  remedies, 
but  not  one  of  them  was  more  deft  and  helpful 
than  Binnie  herself,  who  insisted  on  sitting  with 
me  through  the  night  notwithstanding  all  I 
could  say,  and  left  me  when  at  about  six  o'clock 


1 68  BINNIE 

in  the  morning,  Lady  Frances  appeared  and 
sent  her  away  to  bed.  I  was  stiff  and  scorched 
for  many  days,  but  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  my 
dignity  as  an  invalid,  and  my  gratitude  to  my 
kind  nurses.  Binnie  seemed  wistfully  anxious 
to  show  by  every  means  in  her  power  how 
unlike  she  was  in  reality  to  the  trying  little 
being  I  had  known  hitherto,  how  transformed 
from  her  former  fancies. 

When  Binnie's  engagement  to  Mr.  Donald- 
son was  announced  the  little  pearl  brooch  came 
back  to  her  with  Mr.  Balsillie's  compliments 
and  kind  wishes.  Dickie 'keeps  up  an  occasional 
correspondence  with  the  naval  chaplain  who 
seems  to  like  South  America  better  than  he 
expected.  Mrs.  Willoughby  still  beats  her 
breast  and  flutters  down  the  wilds  of  West 
Kensington. 

As  for  me,  I  am  at  home  again.  As  I 
write  from  my  lodging  in  Medina  Road,  the 
hills  and  the  widespread  moors,  the  saw-mill 
beyond  the  bridge,  and  the  echoing  forge 
among  the  pines  aremany hundred  miles  away. 
But  I  can  hear  the  hammers  falling,  and  the 
Spey  dashes  through  my  little  sitting-room  in 
sparkling  fury,  and  I  can  lift  up  mine  eyes  to 
the  line  of  light  which  bounds  the  circling  hills 
of  Aviemore.  What  wondrous  visionary  estate 
do  I  not  owe  to  my  good  friend !  How  many 
many   acres   of    moor   and    deer-forest,   skies, 


A   GATE   OF    HEAVEN  169 

almost  beyond  the  ken  of  human  eyes,  aspects 
of  such  changing  beauty  that,  again  and  again, 
I  find  myself  wondering  what  radiant,  un- 
imagined  gate  of  heaven  is  open  upon  earth 
from  those  distant  horizons. 


THE    END 


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rff8 9^98?     Ml   a'" 


L  7  » 


ao 


FEB  05  1997 


r:  2t 


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c»Roulat;on  dept 


LD2i-A30m-7,'73  General  Library 

(R2275siO)476 — A-32  University  of  California 

Berkeley 


1 


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#-i 


56  4JJ  W^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


